


A Dozen Red for Every Wound

by DetectiveRoboRyan



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: (Sorry Yusufa), CW: Primrose, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Found Family, Friendship, Gen, Minor Character Death, Past Sexual Abuse, Primrose-Centric, This was gonna be a oneshot but I fucked up, i added the minor ship tags bc its all in the epilogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2019-08-02 03:05:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 77,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16297031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DetectiveRoboRyan/pseuds/DetectiveRoboRyan
Summary: His name is Alfyn Greengrass, and he is an apothecary. He's from Clearbrook, where he was born and raised. He's traveling to heal people all over the country. He's tall, strong (but not bulky), scruffy, and his grin reaches higher on one side of his mouth than the other. These are the first things that Primrose learns.There will come a day when she grows to call Alfyn not only a friend, but family, which she herself expects least of all.This is how that comes to be.





	1. Back to Black and White

The Crows are in Sunshade and Primrose is close, so close she can taste it. Fury twists inside her like a coiled snake that's been waiting, biding its time, since the first time someone lay a hand on her that she didn't want. Primrose has bitten back years of anger and lain down pieces of her dignity, her identity, _herself_ in order to wait. And now Helgenish has disappeared with one of the Crows and with Yusufa, dear Yusufa, the one good thing that Sunshade has ever produced, and Primrose is practically frothing.  
  
She's not having a good day. She does not have time to deal with the stupid scruffy traveler she ran into. Unfortunately, it's hard to ignore someone talking when they're helping you back up.  
  
His name is Alfyn Greengrass, and he is an apothecary. He's from Clearbrook, where he was born and raised. He's traveling to heal people all over the country. He's tall, strong (but not bulky), scruffy, and his grin reaches higher on one side of his mouth than the other. These are the first things that Primrose learns.  
  
She's a little busy, but Primrose's continued survival for the past ten or so years has been based on the ability to read people. Alfyn seems genuine in his desire to help, and lies his honesty bare on his face for anyone to see. He isn't just honest, he's eager— champing at the bit for a chance to "do the right thing," or at least what his gut tells him the right thing is.  
  
Naturally, Primrose doesn't trust him. But she could use a hand and figures that they'll part ways once Helgenish gets what he deserves, and she is kind of in a hurry, so she lets him come along.  
  
This is how she learns one more thing about Alfyn Greengrass: he would willingly put his life on the line for a stranger.  
  
She doesn't remember the chase. She doesn't remember any words they exchanged before the fight. She doesn't remember the fight itself, which irks her because she knows it must've been satisfying to drive her knife into Helgenish's chest, and that's one memory she wouldn't mind reliving. But she remembers her name on Yusufa's lips, her bruises, the fall; she remembers Alfyn, the idiot she's known for all of ten minutes, running to help like Helgenish and his henchmen don't even exist; she remembers holding Yusufa's bloody hand during the extra minutes that Alfyn could give her and she remembers Yusufa's words—  
  
_you killed them? You killed them all?_  
  
and she remembers—  
  
_like dogs, Yusufa._  
  
She remembers, then, when Alfyn looked to her and shook his head, when he said she wouldn't make it, when he said the best he could do is to give her a sleeping potion so she wouldn't be in pain. She remembers kissing Yusufa's brow while her eyes shut. She remembers kneeling there until the sun started to lower and Yusufa's chest stilled, as her body began to grow cold, and she remembers watching as Alfyn wrapped her in a blanket as a makeshift shroud and set it alight, and she remembers watching Yusufa's ashes mingle with the Sunshade sand.  
  
"It's done," he tells her. "Not much of a funeral, but…"  
  
"It's better than most of us get," Primrose says, her voice hollow.  
  
Alfyn's grin reaches higher on one side of his mouth than the other, but his expression is somber, and he's quiet. The desert lands are cold once the sun's set, but the day's warmth still lingers in Primrose's bones. It feels wrong— the one good thing Sunshade ever gave her is gone, and it feels like the world should be dark and cold.  
  
"Why?" Primrose finds herself asking.  
  
Alfyn cocks his head. "Why what?"  
  
There are lots of whys Primrose could ask. She settles on the easiest one to ask. "Why did you run to save her?"  
  
"That's my job," Alfyn says. "Mending for the bleeding. A dagger for the dying. The whole nine yards."  
  
Primrose supposes he's right. "You didn't save her," she says.  
  
"I can't save everyone." He shrugs, like it's just a fact. "Doesn't mean I won't try."  
  
They part ways as the night cools, Alfyn to the inn back in Sunshade only after he asks Primrose more than once if she'll be alright on her own. And Primrose is— she always is— and maybe feels like she owes it to Yusufa, at least a little bit, though she's not sure why, but she stays, and in the morning, she waits on the outskirts of Sunshade for Alfyn to leave along the main road.  
  
Primrose is only human, and she's a big enough person to admit (if only to herself) that maybe her first impression was mistaken or misinformed. Now, she's not about to bare her soul to him anytime soon (or ever, she tells herself firmly), but they're going the same way, and there's safety in numbers. Besides, she rationalizes, based on her knowledge of how men work, Alfyn has proven himself a considerably better man than Helgenish (though that's not hard), and in fact likely quite a bit better than most of the men Primrose has encountered in her line of work. He also seems so painfully innocent of how the vices of the world can tempt even the most prudish temperament that Primrose realizes she'd better go with him, just so she can look out for him.  
  
And, she reassures herself, if he gets handsy, she has knives.  
  
So that's decided. Primrose isn't sure how he'd take her reasoning, but luckily for her, he doesn't ask. Instead he just grins and welcomes her aboard, like they're setting off on a sea voyage into parts unknown where the challenges they face will forge them into True Companions and not traveling the same way on the same road for the time being.  
  
"Safety in numbers, right," he says. He sticks his hand out to her for her to shake.  
  
Primrose looks at it, then back to him. She does not shake his hand.  
  
Alfyn's grin falters. He pulls his hand back.  
  
"Right," he says. "Glad we agree."  
  
So they leave Sunshade behind with no sendoff or fanfare— and it's good riddance, as far as Primrose is concerned. With Yusufa gone, there's nothing there for her anymore. All the Sunlands hold, Primrose is convinced, is sand and ruin.  
  
The road starts to climb along the treacherous mountain paths of the Highlands. The fastest way to Stillsnow is around the east side of the lake, through the Coastlands and the Flatlands. Alfyn says his business is in Goldshore, but it's not _urgent_ business— something about rare healing herbs that Primrose had only half-listened to. That's generally how things go: Alfyn insists on filling their walking with chatter because he claims that it'd make the miles feel less monotonous. He'll ask Primrose questions— where she's going, where she's from, where she learned to dance, what living in the Sunlands was like, and all manner of incessant inquiries that'd seem perfectly pleasant and hospitable to someone who isn't Primrose. Her saving grace is that he doesn't seem to be _expecting_ a two-sided conversation, so when she answers his small talk with something appropriately curt and vague, he'll respond, then connect it to some tangentially-related story. After a while, Primrose learns how to tune him out.  
  
Alfyn ambles whenever he walks and lounges whenever he sits, and his stories meander in a way Primrose thinks is appropriately reminiscent of the streams back in the Riverlands. The rest of him meanders, too— he wanders off the beaten path after everything that catches his eye, which sometimes results in finding treasure and sometimes results in getting lost. He'll stop and chat with just about everyone they pass, usually while helping them out in some way. Alfyn's very being is loose and casual and familiar like everyone he meets is already his friend, and the strangest thing is that it _works_ — it gets them discounts at the inn and at the shops, or a tip to where something valuable may be hidden, and Primrose just can't fathom it.  
  
That sticks out to Primrose more than his ambling, no matter how much it irks her that a ten-day journey takes them two weeks. It makes her wonder— doesn't he know how friendliness can be faked? Doesn't he know that the world may not respond in kind? And then, how can he manage to be so friendly and unabashedly open knowing how it leaves him vulnerable to hurt?  
  
Primrose is, she realizes, envious.  
  
She vows to never tell Alfyn this, and locks this thought deep enough inside that she hopes she'll forget it in the first place.  
  
They stop in Cobbleston to resupply, and Alfyn runs across another soul in need of help— a warrior, sworn to protect the town, who's trying to rescue a boy kidnapped by local bandits. Naturally, Alfyn offers to help.  
  
The warrior frowns. "Are you certain? There will be danger."  
  
"All the more reason to have a couple allies backing you up," Alfyn replies, giving one of those stupidly radiant grins. "What say you, boss?"  
  
Even this broad, stoic-looking warrior isn't immune to Alfyn's charm. So he reluctantly lets them come along to help, and they dispose of the bandits and rescue the boy. It's all very heart-warming, and Primrose is as glad as anyone that the little village is safe, but as far as she's concerned, that's all the involvement they need to have. But the warrior asks to join them the next morning, when they're preparing to leave once more, and of course, Alfyn says _sure, boss, welcome aboard._ So another traveler joins their party, and Primrose hopes that their new friend isn't as chatty as Alfyn.  
  
Their new party member is Olberic Eisenberg, he's a warrior, and Primrose kind of wishes he would stop yelling about his unbending blade during battle. He's also not as chatty as Alfyn, but he's friendly enough to carry on a conversation, meaning Primrose has another voice to learn to tune out.  
  
"Have you been traveling together long?" Olberic asks, when the road's started to wind back down from the mountains and fade into the dunes and low shorelines and tide pools of the Coastlands.  
  
"A couple months, give or take," Alfyn shrugs. "We met in Sunshade, and we're going the same way, so we figured safety in numbers, y'know?"  
  
Olberic hums. "I see," he says. "A sensible move."  
  
"She doesn't talk much, but she's good company," Alfyn says. "And she's real handy with a dagger. Right, Prim?"  
  
Primrose bristles. _Prim_ — her name shortens easily, fluidly, but it would've been unbecoming for a young lady of Noblecourt to be known as such, and once she reached Sunshade, her name may as well have been irrelevant, remembered only as a representative of the last shreds of her dignity. But _Prim_ fell from Yusufa's lips as easy as breathing, and Primrose clung to it, perhaps more than she'd realized. From Alfyn's mouth, it sounds wrong, ill-fitting, knobbly in the wrong places like something jammed between her ribcage and her lung.  
  
"Don't call me that," she says without thinking. She coughs. "I get by, I suppose."  
  
Alfyn hesitates, but if he thinks there's a conversation to be had, he doesn't start. "Sure, Primrose," he says. Primrose's shoulders relax, just a tiny bit.  
  
They hit Rippletide next, and, wouldn't you know it, pick up another traveler— a young merchant girl, on a journey to follow the path of a traveler's journal. They help her outsmart and then out-fight some pirates too stupid for their own good, and then between her insistence and Alfyn's inherent charm, they get a night at the inn for free. She's cheerful, brimming with so much youthful optimism and wanderlust that she makes Alfyn look like a grizzled veteran.  
  
Her name is Tressa Colzione, and she's a merchant. Naturally, she and Alfyn get along right out of the gate, which would be a relief for Primrose (as it'd mean she's free from Alfyn's chatter) if it didn't mean there are now two people ceaselessly chattering through all the miles they walk. Primrose supposes she'll just have to get used to it.  
  
The road north from Rippletide takes them to Atlasdam in the Flatlands, where they add yet another traveler to their growing party— Cyrus, a scholar and academic, who may actually be worse than Alfyn just by virtue of his nosiness and his inability to stick to a point if it's not written on a card in front of him. Primrose isn't one to push her own cynicism onto others, but she's starting to dearly wish she'd gone it alone.  
  
At the very least, the others don't try to get too friendly once Primrose makes her boundaries clear. No one is allowed to go into her things, touch her without permission, or walk within arm's reach, and they learn quickly that it's probably not a good idea to approach too quickly, shout to get her attention, or try to wake her up in the morning, all because they've all found out that Primrose's first reaction to being startled is _stab._ Still, they're all stupidly friendly in their own ways. What Primrose won't admit is that it's kind of growing on her.  
  
The road from Atlasdam takes them north into the Frostlands, where they stop in Flamesgrace and pick up a cleric, bringing their party from five to six. Stillsnow, the next stop on Primrose's journey, is close— but they're still clearing the ice and rock from a recent avalanche from the road, so Primrose has to wait.  
  
Well, that's just fine. She's waited this long. She can wait a little longer.  
  
The road takes them back south once more, winding into the Woodlands, and then into the steep red crags of the Cliftlands, and they pick up two more travelers to bring their party total to eight. The last two, a hunter and a thief, are, luckily for Primrose, not as talkative. She actually ends up finding the thief, Therion, quite good company.  
  
"Is he always this chatty?" Therion quietly asks her once, looking over his scarf to Alfyn, who's making his rounds around the camp checking in on everyone, as he's wont to do now that their party is so large.  
  
"Yes," Primrose admits. And then, "you get used to it."  
  
Neither Therion nor H'aanit, the hunter, see fit to ask her about her life story, which suits Primrose just fine. She'll admit that the cheer and friendliness has been growing on her, and perhaps she's taken to engaging a little more when Alfyn sees fit to talk to her, but she wouldn't call them _friends_ , no matter what Alfyn says. Friends are something that normal people have. Primrose is a dead noble's daughter turned whore— any friendship she's had hasn't gone well. It's for the best that she separate herself from the concept, she thinks.  
  
They end up meandering back down to Goldshore, from where they'd finished in the Cliftlands after Tressa and Cyrus took care of what they were doing in Quarrycrest, and going through Saintsbridge (where Ophilia had business to take care of), and Primrose does not join them when they stop in Sunshade for supplies. The hunter stays with her in their campsite, made in the shade of a cliff (it's _not_ the same cliff, no matter what Primrose's mind says), for safety, tying fletching to her arrows. Her cat, with that thick fur suited far more to the colder regions of the Frostlands, sprawls unhappily and clings to what limited coolness the rocks can provide.  
  
They sit in silence. Primrose thinks of Yusufa's shroud slowly burning. You can't dig graves in the desert sands— not deep enough that they won't be disturbed. Letting the Flame consume Yusufa's shed form is the best they could've done. Still, Primrose wishes there were a grave to visit, to lie flowers upon. She would've buried Yusufa with all the ceremony and respect that you give the dead in places you can dig graves, in places like Noblecourt. She would've buried her with a headstone so people remember her name, and dressed her body in finery, the like Yusufa has admitted to daydreaming about but never being able to wear. She was a street urchin before she was sold to Helgenish anyway, Yusufa told her, and neither urchins nor whores get to wear pretty noble dresses. Primrose, fourteen years old when they'd met, had vowed that one day she'd bring Yusufa to noblecourt and make that dream come true.

Of course, that hadn't happened, and Yusufa's only grave is how her ashes mingled with the ever-shifting dunes.  
  
Primrose glances to H'aanit. "Your cat doesn't like the heat," she says.  
  
H'aanit grunts. Her brow is sweaty. The thick pelt cloak she wore in the cooler regions has been stuffed into her traveler's pack. Her shirt is loose around her body, with a low neck and wide armholes— good for hot weather wear, allowing air circulation. Still, H'aanit's not a particularly happy camper.  
  
"She hailest from the Frostlands," H'aanit replies. Her voice is a quiet rumble. Primrose doesn't hear it often, but if H'aanit weren't basically a stranger, she'd say it sounds like a purr. "Any cold creature would doeth the same in this accursed heat."  
  
_It's not so bad,_ Primrose wants to say. Then she remembers her first summer in Sunshade, and how she'd tossed and sweat through stifling, sleepless nights on thin bedrolls and threadbare blankets until Yusufa taught her how to lie so still, the heat couldn't catch her. She feels a pang of sadness at the memory, and it feels like ice crystallizing in her bone marrow.  
  
Even in the desert heat, she feels cold. For a moment she wonders if she's ever felt truly warm, or if Yusufa was the only thing keeping her from being aware of how cold she is.  
  
H'aanit clears her throat. "You hailest from here, aye?"  
  
Primrose shakes her head. "I'm from Noblecourt. I just lived here for a while."  
  
H'aanit nods. She hesitates before speaking again. "You disliken these lands," she says. It's an observation, like it's written all over Primrose's face. She supposes that's fair— she hasn't really bothered to hide her distaste for being back here.  
  
"Bad memories," Primrose says. She falters, trying to figure out how to continue, and gives up. None of them need to know any more, and she knows by now that H'aanit won't ask.  
  
H'aanit nods again. She goes back to her fletching. "I expecteth we will move soon," she says.  
  
Primrose breathes. The sooner the better, she thinks.  
  
They don't stop overnight in Sunshade, and Primrose is glad for it. Instead they camp in the Highlands, just off the path, under an outcropping that provides some shelter from the mountain wind. Primrose takes first watch; she often does, and spends the time on watch alone with her thoughts. Said thoughts are predictable— thoughts of Yusufa usually. She thinks of nights spent pressed together on the bedrolls when the nights allowed, of climbing the roof of the dormitory to look at the stars and trade sips from a bottle of stolen liquor, of being fourteen and at a dead end now that she's followed her only lead as far as she could and feeling lost, so lost, until she met a sweet girl with thin clothes and bruised wrists and the kindest eyes, who made a long string of increasingly silly puns when Primrose told her her name, and of spending the afternoon with her sitting in a dingy Sunshade alleyway next to the back door of a tavern playing cat's cradle and feeling like a child again, which is a sensation that no fourteen-year-old should feel.  
  
Yusufa's absence hurts, a painful cold slowly spreading its feathers through her insides. She feels the mountain breezes on her skin and feels like she'll shatter if one pushes her off the safety of the highland road.  
  
Alfyn approaches from the front, holding up his hands in case Primrose draws her knife. She doesn't, but appreciates it anyway. He sits down a few feet away, setting a lantern between them.  
  
"I'll take the next watch, in a bit," he says. "There's eight of us, so there's no reason for one of us to stay up all night."  
  
Primrose blinks. "Has it been that long?" she asks. But it doesn't surprise her that she's been staring at the sky, thinking of Yusufa, for that long. She shifts, letting Alfyn scoot closer if he wants. He doesn't try to.  
  
Alfyn nods. They sit quietly for a little bit before Alfyn breaks it.  
  
"A while back, when I called you Prim," he says. "I didn't think it'd bother you that much. Sorry about that."  
  
Primrose shifts, looking back at the horizon. "Don't worry about it. You didn't mean to."  
  
"Still," he says. "I overstepped. Doesn't matter that I didn't mean to when it still happened, yeah? I won't do it again."  
  
This gives Primrose pause. She's not used to being apologized to— not sincerely, and especially not for a slight as small, in perspective, as this. She's not really sure how to respond.  
  
"Me neither," she says. "I mean. Thank you. I appreciate it." Because 'me neither' is _absolutely_ what you say when someone apologizes to you. Nice, Primrose.  
  
Alfyn chuckles. "My fault, really," he says.  
  
He doesn't talk anymore. Primrose kind of wants him to— the silence feels unbearably stifling, filling her chest with sand. Alfyn rests his arm on his knee. They're facing west, towards the Sunlands, and though the desert is long since out of view, the knowledge that it's there, the place where Yusufa died, feels like pinpricks on the back of Primrose's neck.  
  
Primrose speaks instead. "You're a strange one," she says. "You know if you keep trusting everyone like you do, you're liable to get stabbed in the back."  
  
"You know, Therion said the same thing," Alfyn remarks. "But I don't see what's wrong with trustin' folks, yeah? If gettin' stabbed is the price I pay for doin' good in the world, then I guess I'll just have to pay it."  
  
Primrose shakes her head. "That'll be your undoing."  
  
Alfyn grins, that stupid, broad grin like there are no troubles in the world. "Guess it's good that I've got folks like you and Therion to look out for me, huh?"  
  
Primrose rolls her eyes. Alfyn chuckles, and Primrose pretends that she thinks it's lame but some part of her is glad that such optimism still exists in the world. Helgenish closed her heart, made her untrusting and pessimistic just to keep herself alive. And while it did keep her alive, she misses being able to trust with no regrets.  
  
"Sometimes, you've just gotta…" Alfyn waves a hand, trying to put it in words. "Stop and smell the… uh, roses."  
  
Primose looks at him wryly. "If you try and smell me, I'll stab you."  
  
"Ha!" Alfyn barks. "Yeah, that's fair."  
  
Primrose chuckles. Then her laughter fades. "Yusufa used to call me Prim," she says, her voice halting, like it doesn't want her to open up even though— even though she feels like she can trust Alfyn, just a bit.  
  
Alfyn blinks. "Your friend?" he says.  
  
Primrose nods. She tries to swallow the lump in her throat.  
  
"I'm sorry," Alfyn says. Primrose shakes her head, unable to make herself speak. Alfyn hesitates, but starts again. "What else can you tell me about her?"  
  
That, Primrose can do. She coughs, rubbing at tears forming in the corners of her eyes. "I met Yusufa when I'd just arrived in Sunshade," she says. "We were about fourteen. You know all kinds of unsavory types live in Sunshade, you saw the place, so I knew even then that I couldn't trust just anyone, but I could tell right away that Yusufa wasn't like that…"


	2. Thorns That Choke the Light

H'aanit and Cyrus both have business in Stonegard, which is just a few days from Goldshore, so they stop there to rest and resupply. Half the party goes with H'aanit while the other half, Primrose included, go with Cyrus. They interrogate a bookbinder, get left to die in a mansion basement, fight an old man that turns himself into a hideous monster, and overall have a pretty normal day, as far as things go. Primrose will say this— she'd rather fight monsters than men who think they're doing the right thing.  
  
"Stillsnow," H'aanit says, when they've gathered around the table and Alfyn's map. She sets down a note in scratchy handwriting, creased from where H'aanit clenched it in her fist, torn where an arrow pinned it to a tree trunk, and points to Stillsnow. "My master's note tellen that if anyone can healeth his petrification, it is she— Susanna, the seer."  
  
Alfyn frowns. "Last time we were near Stillsnow, the road up was blocked by an avalanche," he says. "What, last winter?"  
  
"It's getting on towards summer, though," Ophilia brings up. "By August, the road will probably be clear— and _stay_ clear."  
  
"So, we venturen forth, then," H'aanit decides. She nods to Alfyn and Ophilia. "Prithee, your business lieth in Goldshore, does it not? Methinks we ought go there first."  
  
"My business isn't that urgent," Alfyn admits. "But Ophilia's pilgrimage is. I _suppose_ we could split the party, if you don't want to wait…"  
  
H'aanit smiles wryly. "Master be notte wandering anytime soon. Wanten as I might to hunteth the beast who bested him, 'twould be foolish to changeth my course now. And," she adds. "Am I to wait, I wouldst rather spendeth that time among friends."  
  
Alfyn, who processed maybe half of that, nods. "Well, if you're sure," he says. "So, Goldshore next. Then we can turn back and make for Noblecourt, since that's where Therion's bound, and from there, it's just a hop, skip, and a jump over to Stillsnow— Primrose's got business there, too."  
  
_Noblecourt_. The name brings a pang of longing to Primrose's chest— homesickness she'd forgotten about. She does an excellent job of not showing this, though H'aanit might've caught some tiny shift in her expression. But she's H'aanit, so she says nothing, and Primrose is grateful for that.  
  
"You may not have time to wait around for me to finish my business in Noblecourt," Therion points out.  
  
"Well, if it permits," Alfyn says brightly. "And if we're runnin' short, we can split the party and meet back up in Stillsnow." He hesitates, then looks at Primrose. "Sorry it's taken us this long to get up there."  
  
Primrose feels seven sets of eyes on her. She shrugs, nonchalantly examining her nails. "I've waited this long," she says. "I'll survive waiting another few months." She would wait another ten years if it was what she had to do. A detour isn't going to kill her.  
  
Goldshore is quiet and balmy, the salty breeze and the idle chatter creating a background murmur in harmony with the constant sound of the waves. Primrose could always tell when they were close to one of the Coastlands' many little trading ports when she started to hear sea shanties, voices of sailors off the coast carried in on the wind. Though Primrose doesn't doubt that Goldshore has its own share of problems— no amount of lovely singing can change that.  
  
They arrive late at night. After getting settled in the inn and spending the night, the party splits once breakfast is done. Ophilia has the Kindling to perform, and though it should theoretically be a quick errand, Primrose is pretty sure, their group has a tendency to get into trouble when it comes to quick errands, so Cyrus goes with her. Alfyn, meanwhile, wants to see if he can do something about the fever he heard was going around, which should also theoretically be quick and shouldn't need any backup. Primrose has absolutely no reason to go with him.  
  
Naturally, she does.  
  
Alfyn has learned to stop asking her too many questions. So maybe Primrose judged him a _little_ harshly right at first (though to be fair, she was having a bad day). Alfyn is idealistic and friendly and genuinely wants to do good in the world— that's more than one can say for a depressingly large fraction of people, and Primrose would know better than anyone (except Therion, probably, but that's not the point). Maybe she feels a little protective of Alfyn— Alfyn and his easy grins and leisurely meanderings and inability to sit in chairs without leaning, and the solid gold heart underneath it all.  
  
There's a fever going around in Goldshore, and it strikes Primrose as odd that he's not treating them. She asks as much, while they're wandering through the market district together.  
  
Alfyn shrugs. "There's another apothecary in town," he says. He almost looks like he's pouting— like a petulant child who wanted a turn on the swings, but it was too close to dinner. "She had it under control. Cured that kid's fever in a jif."  
  
Primrose frowns. "That's good, isn't it?" she asks.  
  
"Yeah," Alfyn agrees. He does seem genuinely happy that the child isn't suffering anymore, but Primrose feels like there's more to the story. Still, Alfyn doesn't seem to want to talk about his feelings on the subject, which is for the best— Primrose wouldn't even know where to start.  
  
There's a crowd gathered in the markets. Primrose hesitates— her keen ears pick up _medicine_ and _remedy_ and _miracle_ _cure_ and _apothecary_. She takes Alfyn's sleeve and gives it a tug to get his attention.  
  
"Sounds like that crowd's talking about some genius apothecary," she says, leaning up to speak a little more quietly. "Think it could be the same one that got to your patient before you did?"  
  
Alfyn frowns. "Must be," he says. "I wanna talk to her. Maybe she and I can share tips!"  
  
He sounds impossibly chipper for someone who's had his territory infringed upon— then again, it wasn't like Alfyn was making any money, anyway. When the crowd clears, Primrose sees an apothecary, grinning and waving to the departing crowd, a hand resting on her satchel. She's tall and dark-haired and somewhere at the intersection between plain and pretty; pretty enough to be called so, but obviously not be trying, like the mythical standard of "real beauty" that men like to idealize. Her eyes flit to Alfyn and Primrose, and for a second Primrose sees mistrust flash across her eyes befores he hides it in a friendly smile.  
  
"Oh, you're the apothecary that that girl Ellen brought," she says. "Sorry about how that turned out."  
  
Alfyn waves a hand. "Hey, all's well that ends well," he promises. "I'm just glad Flynn's feeling better. I hate to see kids suffer."  
  
The other apothecary nods empathetically. "It's just the _worst_ thing," she agrees. Then she holds out her hand for him to shake. "Vanessa Hysel, by the way. Always a pleasure to meet a fellow apothecary."  
  
Alfyn shakes it firmly, giving her one of those easy, lopsided grins. "Hey, right back at you. I'm Alfyn Greengrass, from Clearbrook," he says. "This is my friend Primrose," he adds, when Vanessa's eyes shift to Primrose. In the instant that passes, Primrose sees hesitation in Vanessa's eyes— like she didn't expect Alfyn to have backup. Primrose has a bad feeling about Vanessa Hysel, though for all she knows, it's unfounded. But Primrose has survived this long relying on her gut, and isn't about to stop.  
  
"I see," Vanessa says, slightly more cooly.  
  
Primrose gives her a smile mostly made of teeth. "Charmed."  
  
Alfyn clears his throat. "Hey, Vanessa, I was actually hoping we could compare notes," he says. "Given the way you cured Flynn's fever in a snap like that, I bet I could learn a thing or two from you. How 'bout it?"  
  
Vanessa preens. "Oh, I'm flattered," she says, cheerfully ignoring Primrose. "May I see your lodebook?"  
  
Alfyn takes it out of his satchel and hands it over. Vanessa thumbs through it, making interested noises, though if Primrose isn't mistaken, her eyes are glazed over. She hands it back with an approving nod.  
  
"You've got solid material here, Alfyn," she says. "Though your measurements don't seem very… exact. Most things aren't measured in pinches and handfuls."  
  
Alfyn chuckles. "Yeah, I know, but if it ain't broke, right?" he says humbly. "You work in exacts?"  
  
"Oh, always," Vanessa nods. "I find that trial and error, finding out _exactly_ how much gillyweed to put in a poultice to get the best effect, is really what gives my medicines more precise results. We don't want something to be more effective on one person than it is on another, now, do we?" Alfyn and Vanessa both laugh.  
  
"Aw, yeah, I guess you're right," Alfyn admits. "Hey, mind if I take a look at yours?"  
  
Vanessa visibly hesitates. "Well," she says.  
  
"I think that's a _great_ idea," Primrose pipes up. "What better place to start learning than from Vanessa's book itself?" Vanessa glares at her, which Primrose meets with a smirk that asks her what she's going to do about it.  
  
Alfyn doesn't notice. "Ah, you don't have to," he promises. "We gotta have _some_ secrets, y'know?"  
  
Vanessa seems relieved. "Yes, of course," she agrees. "I can't have just _anyone_ going through my recipes, you know."  
  
"Aw, but it's only fair," Primrose presses. "Come on, Alfyn, aren't you curious?"  
  
Alfyn chuckles. "Aw, lay off her, Primrose," he says. "I really don't mind."  
  
"I knew a fellow apothecary would understand," Vanessa says with a smile. Her face reminds Primrose of a crocodile— all jagged teeth and deceptively strong jaws. "Which reminds me, actually— I ought to take my leave. Those antidotes aren't going to make themselves."  
  
"Oh, yeah, 'course," Alfyn agrees. "See you 'round, then!"  
  
He and Vanessa wave to each other as Vanessa dashes off. Primrose wonders what's got her in such a hurry— maybe she just didn't like how close Alfyn had gotten to seeing her secrets.  
  
Alfyn sighs. "You didn't need to do that," he says.  
  
"She's hiding something," Primrose insists. "Did you see how she hesitated?"  
  
"Maybe she just didn't want me looking in her stuff," Alfyn reasons. He scratches his head and scowls. "Why'd you press her like that? I thought you of all people would understand someone keepin' secrets."  
  
That stings for reasons Primrose doesn't know how to articulate. "Alfyn—"  
  
"I'm gonna take a walk on the beach," he says. "Could you head back to the tavern and let the others know?"  
  
Primrose opens her mouth to say something— what she was going to say, she doesn't know— and then closes it again. "Alright," she concedes. "I'll tell them." But she still doesn't trust Vanessa Hysel, and she's not going to budge.  
  
Alfyn's back in time for dinner, and for what it's worth, he seems a little less troubled. Ophilia's going to do the Kindling tomorrow, now that the sickness has subsided and the church isn't overflowing with people needing healers, so the group going with her (Tressa, H'aanit, and Cyrus) retires early to prepare. Primrose stays up the latest, as per usual, and Therion catches her in the front room.  
  
"Hey," he says. "I heard about the thing with that other apothecary."  
  
"She's hiding something," Primrose says. "And Alfyn doesn't see it."  
  
Therion snorts. "He wouldn't see betrayal coming if it slapped him in the face," he says bitterly. He glances at the stairway leading up to the rooms. "Hey, here's an idea. It's probably illegal, and definitely kind of a dick move."  
  
"You have my attention."  
  
Therion grins over his thick purple scarf. "Walk with me. I'll explain on the way."  
  
Goldshore after dark glows with firelight, the towering lighthouse off the shore the brightest of them all. It's the port districts that shine the brightest, ships coming in and going out at all hours, but the gentle glow of firelight in the streetlamps outlines all the bigger roads and turns daytime alleyways into cracks of pitch darkness where anything could hide.  
  
In Sunshade, night was when the city came to life. The darkness made people feel bolder, more dangerous, as if the shadows covered up their debauchery. Night in Sunshade was made of long shadows and sketchy characters making deals on street corners, of day workers easing their stresses in mugs of ale and games of dice and cards, of thieves lurking in alleyways and watching for easy marks, and of whores in split-side skirts and low necklines and clattering jewelry leaning on stairways and calling out their prices. But Primrose would not be among them; no, Primrose was a dancer, even if the only difference between a dancer and a whore is who you serve. The dancers would filter out into the streets and bring deep-pocketed strangers into the big tavern hall, where they could watch the girls on stage while enjoying a mug of fine ale, and if they so desired, they could pick one and pay a little extra for a nice time. This is what makes Sunshade so special— anyone willing can exchange their leaves for ten minutes with a girl of their choice, with all the convenience of ordering a drink off a menu card.  
  
Though, Primrose has to wonder if that's changed now that Helgenish is gone. She'd like to think that it has, and the girls all got out and left the place to rot, but she kind of doubts it.  
  
"Hysel doesn't gather her herbs herself," Therion explains, his voice a quiet murmur, as the two of them move through the darkened streets. "But someone has to. If we find who she's paying to gather those ingredients, we find her secret."  
  
It's a solid plan. "So you don't trust her either," Primrose guesses. "Did you meet her?"  
  
"Didn't have to. Alfyn told me about meeting the apothecary that went around and cured all the fevers, and when you two came back separately, I could tell you'd disagreed. He probably wants to trust her, and you're suspicious."  
  
Primrose quirks an eyebrow. "You can tell all that?"  
  
Therion shrugs. "I can read Alfyn like a book, and the two of us are similar enough that I can guess we'd both react the same way."  
  
"Well, bravo, then," Primrose says wryly. "You nailed it. Can I ask why you care so much?"  
  
"Nope."  
  
"Fair enough."  
  
Primrose was going to leave it at that, but Therion sighs and tells her anyway. "Alfyn's gonna get himself killed if he keeps trusting everyone like that," he says. "But he's got a good heart in a crappy world that'll try and break it. Maybe it's too late for me, but I can try to—"  
  
"Protect him while you can," Primrose finishes. "Yeah, I get it."  
  
Therion nods. "If we're right, and Hysel is really hiding something, then we should handle it so he doesn't have to."  
  
It makes perfect sense to Primrose. "Let's find her, then," she says. "Where to?"  
  
Goldshore, as a trade city, monitors very closely what enters and exits its borders. Anyone bringing anything in or out has to provide a copy of what they're carrying, and for larger deliveries like things coming in on caravans or cargo ships, a guard will often go through and check to see that the goods are what the inventory says they are— that only merchants with permission to sell things like opiates and weaponry are trying to bring them into the city, and that there are no wanted criminals hiding in the crates that are supposed to be jam jars. This is why the party got to the inn as late as they did— Tressa had to do inventory before they could even get in line.  
  
Point being, though, that they can find out just what it was that Vanessa Hysel ordered by looking at the records. It would've come in through the east exit, so that's where Therion and Primrose go.  
  
The gate's quiet and completely devoid of activity, except for one city guard, dozing in his guard booth chair. Primrose can only imagine how boring that job is, if nobody's trying to get into the city— with the distant waves and the crickets in the bushes outside the city, it's only natural someone would get drowsy.  
  
"The ledger must be under the desk," Therion whispers. "I can get it if you distract him."  
  
Primrose cracks her neck and undoes the top two buttons on her blouse. "Don't worry, I can handle that," she promises. Therion nods and melts into the shadows, leaving Primrose to do what she does best— allure.  
  
Primrose leans on the guard's desk. "Aww, look at you," she coos, pushing her chest out just enough he'll notice. "Working so late. How admirable!"  
  
The guard snorts and jerks awake. "Buh?" he manages. His eyes focus right on Primrose's cleavage. His face turns pink. "Uh… e-evening, ma'am. Can I help you? Are you leaving the city?"  
  
"Oh, no, nothing like that. I just couldn't help but notice you here… " Two of her fingers play idly with the buttons on his jacket. The guard gulps. "You must've worked so hard all day. I can't even _imagine_. Don't you want to go home?"  
  
The guard coughs. He glances at the big clock poking out over Goldshore's skyline. "My, uh, my colleague, Winston, should be here soon to take over," he says. "He's late."  
  
Primrose scoffs. "What a slacker," she remarks. "Say, soldier, what's your name?" While the guard's attention is fully on her, she sees Therion slowly creep up from behind.  
  
"Uh? Um… Baker. And Winston's not all bad," the guard protests. "Uh… w-was there something you needed help with, ma'am?"  
  
Primrose sways her hips, shrugging innocently. "I just think— you must've worked _so_ hard _all_ day, and you haven't had a bit of rest. Maybe I could help _you_ , Baker."  
  
It takes a moment for Baker to realize what she means, and when he does, he coughs and shakes his head firmly. "No, no, thank you, I'm— I'm not interested in your… _services_."  
  
"Aww." Primrose pouts, sitting herself on the table. Behind Baker, Therion gestures for her to get him away from the table. How in the world is she supposed to do that?  
  
"Now, ma'am, if there's nothing you need from me," Baker says, clearing his throat. "I think you ought to head on home. Goldshore isn't safe at night for a woman alone."  
  
Primrose sighs. "Oh, you're right," she admits. "Oh! But maybe when Winston gets here, you could walk me home, Baker? I'd feel _much_ safer."  
  
Baker considers this. "I think I can manage that," he agrees. "I sure hope he gets here soon, then, for both our sakes."  
  
_Get him away from the desk_. Primrose makes a show of leaning around the other side of the wall, craning her neck. She stands, looking through the streets. "Oh, I think I see someone," she says. She trots to the other side of the gate. "Baker, could you come look and tell me if it's Winston or not?"  
  
Works like a charm. Baker stands up at his desk and looks in the direction Primrose faces, and when he can't see anybody, he comes to stand besides Primrose. "I don't see anybody," he frowns.  
  
"Oh, really, I could've _sworn_ I saw someone. Are you looking?"  
  
"Yeah, I don't see anyone. Maybe it was your imagination?"  
  
"I could swear I saw those shiny buttons, you know how they catch the light…"  
  
Behind the desk, Therion shuts the ledger and gives Primrose a thumbs-up. He tucks it back under the table and disappears once more. Behind her back, Primrose returns the gesture.  
  
"I suppose it must've been my imagination," Primrose shrugs. "Well, so much for that. Winston must be _very_ late."  
  
"He is," Baker agrees, frowning as he sits back at his desk. "I'm sorry, ma'am, I guess unless you want to wait around, I won't be able to walk you home."  
  
Primrose waves a hand. "Oh, that's quite alright," she says. "Thank you anyway, Baker."  
  
Baker tips his cap. "Goodnight, ma'am," he says. "Walk safe, yeah?"  
  
Primrose waves to him, then lets the false coy smile on her face drop when she's far enough away and Therion rejoins her. She hates playing the flirt like that, but at least it worked.  
  
"What'd you find?" she asks Therion. "I hope it was worth it."  
  
"Solid maybe," Therion says. "Yesterday, some mercenaries came through with a satchel full of Glowworm Moss. But," he adds. "Five days ago, Vanessa Hysel herself came through, and _this_ lists what she was carrying in that satchel." He produces a folded slip of parchment and hands it to Primrose. It seems like a normal list— a set of scales, medicine vials, a mortar and pestle, a needle and thread, and various herbs and substances that Primrose has heard of but couldn't say what they're for.  
  
"This one," Primrose says. "Gaborra Evergreen. Have you heard of that?"  
  
Therion shakes his head. "I know Alfyn doesn't carry it," he says. "He'd probably know more about this stuff."  
  
"We'll ask him in the morning," Primrose decides. "He doesn't need to know _how_ we got this paper, does he?"  
  
"Nah, I don't think so. What Alfyn doesn't know, et cetera."  
  
"Good plan."  
  
But they don't get a chance to ask him about it when the morning comes before something else grabs their attention. Ophilia and her group leave early for the church to perform the Kindling, but by midmorning, the entire city's in panic mode because the fever that Vanessa Hysel cured has come back with a vengeance. The market is clogged with people begging Vanessa to help. And help she does— Vanessa assues the crowd that she has a remedy, but due to how rare it is, there's a price— a price high enough that Primrose winces. But those who can buy the remedy pay for it— except there are also those who can't.  
  
"Miss Hysel, please," a woman begs, her hands clasped together tightly. "I don't have that money, but I have my entire life savings here— I'll find some way to pay it back, I'll— I'll do anything—"  
  
Vanessa Hysel smiles, and Primrose sees cloying sweetness and crocodile teeth. "You have my sympathies," she says. "But you understand, my medicine is in high demand and short supply. I'm already in need of more, you see. I cannot let a single vial go so… cheaply."  
  
The woman's face crumples. Vanessa turns back to her wealthy customers. The woman retreats, her shoulders shaking, and Alfyn has gone very quiet.  
  
Alfyn stays very quiet. He talks no more than he needs to when he goes to offer his help to the woman with the sick child, and when he leaves the house, he leans heavily against the door with his face in his hands and stays that way until Olberic bites the bullet.  
  
"How's the girl?" he asks, resting a hand on Alfyn's shoulder.  
  
Alfyn sucks in a breath. "Hurting," he says tightly. "The cough's so bad she can barely breathe. It looks like the Gaborra Cough to me, but I can't figure how it got here— how's a rare disease from another continent get all the way up here, huh?"  
  
_Gaborra_. Primrose and Therion exchange glances.  
  
"Alfyn," Primrose says. "There's something Therion and I have to tell you."  
  
Alfyn sighs. "What is it?"  
  
Primrose looks at Therion. He says nothing. She gives him a halfhearted glare— _thanks for making me do all the talking, asshole_ — and takes a breath.  
  
"The night we got here, Therion found out that Vanessa Hysel wasn't gathering all her herbs herself, but paying mercenaries to do it," Primrose explains. "And both of us thought she was hiding something, so we decided to see if she really was. So we paid a visit to the guard booth at the eastern gate yesterday night and… _borrowed_ the register."  
  
Alfyn looks shocked. "You _stole_ it?"  
  
"No, we borrowed it," Therion insisted. "I gave it back after I had a look. But I did steal this part— the record of what Hysel was carrying in her bag last time she got back into the city." He hands Alfyn the parchment. Alfyn unfolds it. When his eyes hit one of the items, they widen, and he puts his hands to his forehead. He starts pacing, the gears in his head turning at a hundred miles an hour.  
  
"Gods," he finally manages. "Gods, you two— you stole— do you have any idea what this means?"  
  
"We were going to ask you this morning," Primrose insists. "Look, there, Gaborra Evergreen— That's the only thing there we didn't recognize."  
  
Something clicks in Alfyn's mind. He pulls out an empty bottle of Vanessa's medicine— the miracle fever tonic— and takes a second look at it. Then he fumbles with his satchel and pulls out his notes, flipping through the pages.  
  
"She must've brewed that fever tonic with Gaborra Evergreen," Alfyn mumbles to himself. "Which makes sense— it's a potent fever reducer. But I remember reading… ah, here." He taps his page. "Too much of it in a concoction causes inflamation and swelling of the throat, causing severe coughing."  
  
"She must've brewed it like that so she could sell the real cure," Primrose guesses. "So what's in the cure?"  
  
Alfyn massages his temples. "She mentioned a moss. Glowworm Moss? That's the only one I can think of."  
  
Therion snaps his fingers. "Day before yesterday, her mercenaries brought in some Glowworm Moss," he says. "The registry said so."  
  
"Miss Hysel said she needed to get more," Olberic adds.  
  
"Then if we find the moss, we find Vanessa," Primrose sums up. "Let's go."  
  
"Wait," Alfyn manages. He sighs heavily, putting everything back into his satchel. "I… alright. You were right, Primrose. I shouldn't have trusted her."  
  
"It's not your fault," Primrose says. "Some people are just… bad. It's not a negative thing to want to believe they're good first."  
  
"Just leave her to us," Therion says. "We'll sort her out."  
  
Alfyn sighs. "Just… don't kill her," he says. "Please. Nobody needs to die today."  
  
Primrose and Therion look at each other. "Alright," Primrose agrees. Therion nods. If Alfyn wants to keep her alive, then that's what they'll do.  
  
They find Vanessa in the caves east of Goldshore, surrounded by sellswords harvesting the glowing moss. Her front of the kind, caring apothecary dries up like a puddle in the desert sun when she catches sight of Alfyn, and she smirks— smug and secure in the idea that none of them are going to leave the cave to tell of her scheme. She's easy to fight, and at the end of it, she's unconscious on the cave floor, but Alfyn's hands are shaking around the handle of his axe.  
  
The guards cart her away. Alfyn spends the rest of the evening distributing her cure for free. He returns to the inn late at night, and collapses onto the sofa with a heavy sigh.  
  
Primrose looks at him in the reflection of her dagger. "A job well done?"  
  
"Anyone who had the cough should be feeling better within the next few days," Alfyn nods. "Therion around?"  
  
"Upstairs."  
  
Alfyn nods. "Alright. I'll talk to him later. Primrose," he says.  
  
Primrose sets her knife down. "Is this about Hysel?"  
  
Alfyn pinches the bridge of his nose. "Yeah," he says. "You were right about her. I made a mistake."  
  
Primrose shakes her head. "No, don't worry about it."  
  
Alfyn holds up a finger. "Nah, see, there you go again. You're doing that thing."  
  
"Thing— _what_ thing?"  
  
"That thing where you just agree with whatever I say to avoid an argument. Not this time. Talk to me. Tell me what you're actually thinking."  
  
Primrose sighs. "I'm not going to _criticize_ you for trusting her, Alfyn. You didn't do anything wrong. I mean it."  
  
Alfyn shakes his head. "Maybe I just need to quit trusting so quick," he says. "You and Therion are right. I'tll get me in trouble."  
  
Primrose looks at him. "No, don't say that," she says. "Trust is— being trusting is good."  
  
"Nah, it's—"  
  
"I _wish_ I could trust like you, Alfyn," Primrose cuts him off. Her tone is severe enough that Alfyn shuts his mouth and looks at her. Primrose almost regrets saying it (she wants to stuff the words back in her mouth before someone gets hurt— there's no sense in pointing out the injustice, the indignity— shut up, endure— shut up, endure— shut up— _shut up— shut up shut up shut up_ ) but she can't stop there.  
  
"I wish I could trust like you do," Primrose repeats, and her chest aches with how much she means it. She draws her knees to her chest, curling against the overstuffed sofa. "For the longest time, I couldn't trust anyone because it'd mean getting hurt. Now you're here, and we've got the others, and I'm reminded that people exist in the world that are good, that won't hurt me, but—" she shakes her head. Her throat closes up.  
  
Alfyn opens his mouth, but no words come out. What can he say?  
  
"You have a good heart, Alfyn," Primrose tells him. "It's trusting and open and soft, and it hurts when someone betrays that trust, but— but please, don't stop trusting because it hurts. Because once you close yourself off, you'll never be able to open back up.  
  
"That's what the world does to people with soft, open hearts. It hardens them until they're closed and cold, like a callus on top of a blister. I don't want to see that happening to you, Alfyn." She smiles hollowly at the embers in the fire. "I don't want to see you getting cold and hard like me."  
  
Alfyn's quiet for a long time. The fire crackles, and it's warm, but Primrose feels the cold knit into her bones and knows that nothing, truly, will feel warm again.  
  
"I'm glad I trusted you, Primrose," he finally says. "But I think you're wrong about— about not being able to open back up again. I think it just takes a lotta patience."  
  
Alfyn stands up and stretches. "I'm goin' on to bed," he says. "G'night. Don't stay up all night, yeah?"  
  
Primrose crosses her heart. "You have my word."  
  
And Alfyn gives her one of his lopsided grins, bright and youthful even with the bags beneath his eyes, and makes his way back upstairs. Primrose watches his retreating back and then the embers in the fireplace, and draws her arms tighter around her knees. And for the first time in quite some time, there's a part of her that thinks Alfyn has a point.


	3. I Think of You and Grip the Stems

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a direct rewrite of the game would be boring. don't freak out if you see some stuff changed.

Ophilia's half of the team returns at five in the morning, battered, exhausted, grumpy, and most importantly, missing the Sacred Flame.  
  
"We have to go up to Wispermill," Ophilia says, her voice trembling and threatening to break all over again. "That's where Lianna told me they went. That's where we'll find the Flame."  
  
"I'll go with Ophilia," Alfyn says. He's more serious than usual after the fiasco with Vanessa, but he's not letting that get in the way of anything. "This might take a while, though, so if we split the party— half of us to Stillsnow with Primrose and H'aanit, half of us to Wispermill— we can meet back up somewhere and discuss our next move from there."  
  
"So H'aanit and I will go to Stillsnow," Primrose muses, looking at the map. "We could move on to Victor's Hollow for Olberic and Tressa's business and wait for the rest of you there."  
  
"Pray, why do we need to split the party in half?" Cyrus asks. "Duskbarrow oughtn't take long, I should think. If I go with Primrose's side of the party, I can split off on my own from them and then return."  
  
That's a terrible idea. Primrose tells him so. "That's a terrible idea," she says.  
  
Cyrus looks taken aback. " _I_ thought it was fine," he mumbles.  
  
"No, she's right," Tressa adds. Tressa had gone with Ophilia this time and with Cyrus back in Stonegard, and still looks a little fried. "The only reason you or Ophilia got out okay is because you had us for backup."  
  
"None of us ought attendeth our business alone," H'aanit decides. "Even if it seemeth quick, 'tis clearly never so."  
  
"Well, it'd be quickest if Tressa and Olberic went with Primrose and H'aanit," Alfyn says. "What say you, teach?"  
  
Cyrus sighs. "You all make very good points," he says. "Very well, I'll accompany Alfyn."  
  
Alfyn rolls the map back up. "Alright, that's settled," he decides. "We'll move out tomorrow. Get some rest, folks— it's gonna be a long walk."  
  
Primrose had often pictured her return to Noblecourt. As a girl of thirteen when she'd first left, chasing the ghost of a lead across the country in a desperate, childish act of grief and vengeance, she'd pictured returning triumphant, her father's murderers killed and his spirit avenged, and despite knowing that it was all very hush-hush, she'd pictured applauding crowds and a table with her favorite desserts and the adoration of her best friend (her very secret crush at the time, the kind that young girls have on boys before they learn better), Simeon. She grew past picturing applause and cake once she began life in Sunshade, but her secret fantasies remained, just with a different outline— she'd return triumphant still, of course, but it would be quieter, and she would have Yusufa by her side and get to buy her the life she never had, with all the pretty dresses and fancy galas that Yusufa daydreamed about. As the years passed, Primrose grew to draw strength from this secret fantasy as much as she relished the thought of finally getting her revenge.  
  
She supposes it serves her right for dreaming.  
  
But regardless of dreams, Primrose's return to Noblecourt is quiet, and she does it with a group of seven other people that she's grown to think of as friends, or at the very least that she doesn't hate. Noblecourt is quieter, but there is still life in it— the ivy crawling up the walls is still green, the terraced architecture is still haphazard and confusing to those unusued to how it spills over itself, the bakers still wake long before sunrise to start making their pastries, and children still chase flocks of pigeons through the squares and shriek and laugh when they scatter.  
  
Primrose doesn't expect anyone to recognize her and indeed, no one does, so she's pleasantly anonymous as she walks routes she'd memorized as a girl— the landmarks may have changed, but the roads are the same, so in the end it doesn't matter much that the bakery is now a shoe store. The route is the same, and she finds herself remembering herself when she was young enough that she would skip down the sidewalks holding her father's hand, the bows in her pigtails swaying in time with her brightly-colored skirts.  
  
The inn hasn't moved. They'll only need one room, probably— it's not as if any of them are staying long, and a night on the floor won't kill anyone. The others leave their things and scatter, taking a look around with the bit of down time they have before regrouping at dinnertime. Primrose has always, always been at least _present_ if not the one to handle getting rooms at the inn; this suits her just fine, because the idea of anyone at all ever touching her belongings sets her teeth on edge.  
  
"Just one room will be fine," Primrose tells the inkeep.  
  
"Mm." The inkeep checks the roster. "Room six upstairs is open. Two beds, ample floor space."  
  
"That'll work out nicely. Thank you."  
  
The inkeep writes this down in the roster. "Name, ma'am?"  
  
"Primrose," Primrose says.  
  
"And your surname," the inkeep prompts.  
  
For a split second, Primrose hesitates. She can't say Azelhart— Geoffery Azelhart is dead; his daughter no better to the people of Noblecourt. A whore is a whore whether you call her a dancer or not, and beyond that, what you call her matters so little she may as well not have a name at all. She remembers _Azelhart_ because of the words on her dagger and _Primrose_ because of fourteen-year-old Yusufa's string of wordplay that quickly turned to nonsense mingled with giggles— but a last name has never been something she's had any reason to give and thus had no reason to forge, so the words stick in her throat.  
  
In the form of an unexpected savior, Alfyn comes to her rescue. "Greengrass," he says. "Just put it under Greengrass."  
  
This satisfies the inkeep, so she hands over a key to Primrose. Primrose takes it and glances back at Alfyn— at first to say something snippy, like how she had it handled, except that's bullshit and Primrose knows it, so she holds her tongue.  
  
"Thanks," she whispers instead. "I don't know what came over me, I just— stopped thinking."  
  
"Don't worry about it, yeah?" Alfyn whispers back. "S'just a name. You can borrow mine as long as you need to."  
  
Primrose offers a smile, small and wry and somewhat insincere, but it's hers. Names _aren't_ just names, at least not to her— it's why she winced so when Alfyn called her Prim.  
  
(Yusufa picked Prim once they'd sat down on a ragged rug in a Sunshade back alley _because that's something friends do, is give each other nicknames,_ she said, and in the quietest, softest moments when the rest of the dormitory was asleep and they snuck out to look at the stars in the dark hours before the sky started to go red in the east, Yusufa would say _Rosie_ , and the memory of Rosie itself is so tender and cherished that Primrose dares not even think it, lest she taint it with the bitterness of grief.)  
  
They bid goodbye to the others the next morning, after resupplying, and Primrose finds herself walking again past familiar landmarks— her old favorite candy store, houses of friends that've moved away or perhaps married and had children, and bakeries where she remembers spending long hours studying for math and science classes when she was twelve or so. She could point this out, but she doesn't, even when they pass the public amphitheater where a local theatre troupe rehearses some play with indistinct drama. Primrose smiles forlornly, and lingers long enough that the rest of the team notices.  
  
"Hey, Primrose, hurry up," Tressa calls. The three of them are half a block up the road. "Something wrong?"  
  
Primrose startles. "No, sorry, just… got distracted." She rejoins the rest of them.  
  
Tressa looks back at the public theater. "Remembering stuff?" she guesed.  
  
Primrose hesitates. "Don't worry about it," she says. "I haven't lived here since I was your age. Thirteen or so."  
  
"Hey!"  
  
Olberic chuckles. "I can understand why this place would hold memories for you. You grew up here, yes?"  
  
"It was a long time ago. Feels like a whole other life," Primrose admits. "And it's silly, really. I had a friend, Simeon, who wanted to be a playwright. He was good at it, too. He worked for my father while he was trying to sell his plays, and he'd tell me the most wonderful stories. I would've loved to see any of them on stage." Primrose pauses. "He probably left town when my father died. I hope he found work somewhere else."  
  
The question Primrose can practically see in Tressa's mind is _you had a friend?_ But she doesn't say that, probably because it'd be rude. Instead Tressa says, "Was he a good writer?"  
  
Primrose is about to say yes, of course, and then pauses. "Well, he was when I was twelve," she says. "So I don't know, really."  
  
H'aanit grunts, nodding to the road. "We ought not linger, friends," she says. "The road ahead be notte long, but 'twould not do to tarry."  
  
And H'aanit is right, so they leave Noblecourt behind, and Primrose puts those memories of a kinder time and a softer Primrose back where they belong— tucked in the past, where the blood on her hands cannot taint them.  
  
The Frostlands in the summer are less frosty but still cool, enough so that everyone adds an extra layer. Primrose is immensely thankful that she splurged on a pair of good walking boots when she and Alfyn were in Cobbleston— they've lasted her for months of walking through everything the eight lands have to offer, and they don't seem anywhere close to giving out. Still, they press north, following the dirt road to Stillsnow until they reach it, a little place buried in the valley surrounded by pine trees. Summer in the Frostlands means piles of muddy slush in ditches on the sides of the roads slowly melted by the long days, and brightly-colored tulips poking through the frozen slush. And there _is_ sunshine, illuminating the mountains and fields when it's out and turning it too bright to look at, but for valley towns like Stillsnow, the sunshine doesn't hit them for very long. It's that mercurial time of the year in the Frostlands when the sunshine is warm, but the shade is still bitterly cold, as if reminding you not to get too cocky and leave your long johns at home.  
  
They arrive around midday, and as usual, Primrose gets them a room at the inn. She pays for two with coins from the pouch Alfyn gave her when they split at Noblecourt and Olberic carries all the baggage (except Primrose's, as always) up the stairs to the rooms on the key tags. Tressa toes off her boots at the door and flops onto the nearest bed in one of the rooms.  
  
"I missed having a bed," she sighs. "I know I'm the youngest, so I have to sleep on the floor when we're short on space, but I think it was starting to give me back problems."  
  
"So sharing with Ophilia didn't work out?" Primrose asks, lifting an eyebrow.  
  
Tressa groans. " _Gods_ , no. She steals all the blankets. I thought Sisters of Aelfric were supposed to be ascetic!"  
  
"I will bunk in here," Olberic decides, setting his bag down at the foot of the other bed. "Is that agreeable to you, H'aanit?"  
  
H'aanit grunts and nods, taking her bag from Olberic and leaving to put it in the other room.  
  
Tressa flops onto her back and puts her hat over her face. "Naptime," she decides. "Wake me for dinner."  
  
"Very well, then," Olberic agrees. "I'll be sure not to rouse you when I return with lunch."  
  
"Now, wait just a minute, let's not get _crazy_ …"  
  
Primrose leaves them to it and sets her things down in the other room. Linde's flopped in front of the lit fireplace, though she _mrrps_ happily at Primrose when she comes in. H'aanit's still fully dressed, like she's going right back out again. She carefully puts a new string in her bow, tightening it to test its springback and then releasing it to keep the wood from warping.  
  
"I was tolden that the woman I seek resideth in the red-roofed home at the edge of the town," H'aanit says. "The seer, Susanna."  
  
"I'll go with you," Primrose suggests. "It's like you said— even if something seems like it should be quick, that's never the case with us, is it?"  
  
H'aanit cracks a smile. "Aye," she agrees. "Very well, then. I thanke thee, friend."  
  
They leave the inn, delving back into the crisp chill of Stillsnow. Primrose keeps her ears attuned to any chatter she hears that might lead her to the next of the Crows, but hears nothing of import.  
  
"If I may asken," H'aanit speaks up. "What is it thou seekst in Stillsnow?"  
  
"This is where the map I found in Sunshade leads," Primrose replies. "And I have reason to believe that it has something to do with the men who killed my father."  
  
H'aanit hums. "So, thou willst kill them," she says.  
  
"Yes, I will," Primrose says.  
  
H'aanit nods. She looks down the road, shading her eyes from the bright Frostlands sun. "We aren close to the seer's home," she says. "I only prayeth she is who Natalia tolden me she is in Stonegard."  
  
"I could do without all the kidnapping and suchlike," Primrose agrees. "You wouldn't think that'd be too much to ask."  
  
H'aanit grunts agreement. "'Tis rather a low bar."  
  
The seer's home is guarded by a burly young man whose job is fending off would-be fortune-seekers, as becomes obvious when he effortlessly tosses away an unlucky traveler. The chatter Primrose overhears says his name is Alaic, he doesn't talk, and if his stony glare towards H'aanit is any indication, he has little patience for people coming to bother the seer.  
  
But ultimately, H'aanit comes out on top, leaving Alaic dazed on the ground. The seer appears on the doorstep and laughs, as if she finds this funny, and greets H'aanit by name before being introduced. H'aanit and Linde carry Alaic back inside when she asks (because if an old woman who knows your name before being told asks you to do something, you're probably going to do it) but before Primrose can join them, the old woman holds up her hand.  
  
"Hold there, dear," she says. "I should like to speak to H'aanit and H'aanit alone."  
  
H'aanit frowns. "I wouldst prefren Primrose come inside with us," she says.  
  
"I don't mind," Primrose replies. "Didn't you just say you know you can trust her?"  
  
"'Tis not mine own safety that I worryeth for," H'aanit says. "Prithee, seer."  
  
Susanna looks from H'aanit to Primrose. A smile curls her wrinkled lips. "Ah, very well," she agrees. "There's enough tea for all of us."  
  
And there is. Primrose had never really considered herself a tea person, but whatever Susanna serves them is quite good— or maybe her tastes have changed since she was a girl. She nurses the cup of sweet, slightly spicy tea while Susanna and H'aanit discuss the mess H'aanit's master has gotten himself into. The grim truth is that while there is a way to get him out, the only way to undo a petrification is to kill the beast that did it— a task that, given the way H'aanit pales, seems insurmountable even for her.  
  
But it's the only way, so Susanna sends them off with a task— to find an herb that, when made into a salve, will ward against petrification. She wishes H'aanit luck and safe hunting, and the minute she shuts the door, H'aanit sighs and rubs her temples.  
  
"Kill the Redeye, sayeth she," she says. "Fie, I may well challengen Aelfric himself, for how mountainous this task be!"  
  
"I suppose Aelfric can't turn you to stone," Primrose admits. "But it's what you have to do, isn't it? The only option is to get it done."  
  
H'aanit nods. "Aye," she agrees. She offers Primrose an apologetic smile. "Pray, forgiven me. 'Twas a moment of weakness, naught more. Comen— we shall prepareth and set out to hunt on the morrow."  
  
The day passes without incident, and the night follows, cold and dark but filled with stars painting a picture of summer constellations. After dinner at the inn, Primrose quickly changes back into her dancer's outfit and slips out, bound for the tavern. If anyone's seen her mark, the tavern is the most likely place they'll be, and she's done waiting.  
  
The Stillsnow tavern is lively and warm, lit by roaring hearths and filled with cheerful tavern sounds of patron chatter, bawdy drinking songs, clinking glasses, and the bard tuning his violin sitting on the edge of the empty stage. She's not the only dancer here— good. No one will bat an eye.  
  
She maneuvers around the room with practiced subtlety, painting a smile on her face for anyone who catches her eye and looking for all the world as if there's no place she'd rather be, even as her mood sours when she hears nothing related to her target. She's considering giving up and outright asking when a dancer catches her arm.  
  
"You're the new girl, right?" she asks breathlessly. "Thank Sealticge! We might just make tonight's quota. Can you dance?"  
  
Primrose blinks. "Right, yes," she says. "I dabble, I suppose."  
  
"Well you'd better dabble like your life depends on it," the other dancer says, taking her arm and pulling her towards the stage. "People are going to start to go home in another hour if we don't keep the coin flowing. I don't know _where_ Rufus found you, but I sure as shit hope you can keep a crowd happy. Elison!"  
  
The bard jumps. "Shiena, did you—"  
  
Shiena shoves Primrose towards him. "Play something," she says. "Gods willing, we'll get back on track. You, new girl— bring any coins they throw to Arianna. And you'd _better_ not let me down, or we're _all_ going to get it." Shiena glances anxiously towards the door. "Got it?"  
  
"Got it," Primrose agrees. Maybe giving the people a show will loosen their tongues— but at the very least, it'll help the dancers.  
  
Shiena pushes her towards the stage. "Do _not_ fuck this up for us," she hisses, before disappearing back into the crowd of bar patrons.  
  
Elison grimaces. "Just, uh, improvise, maybe," he says.  
  
"Don't worry about me," Primrose promises, stepping up on stage. "Just play."  
  
Primrose doesn't know the dance that goes with the song that the bard plays, but she doesn't have to— after years of practice, dancing is written into her bones, her body itself knowing how to move to match a given tempo. It's hips, chest, shoulders, swiveling and swaying, framing what people want to see while keeping it all hidden enough that it's exciting. It's the clinking of her jewelry and the bare curve of her torso and the swish of her skirt as her thighs poke through the split on either side; the pout of her lips and the well-placed saucy winks she sends to the audience to draw them further into the excitement. The art of the dance Primrose learned is making people forget why they came with visions of beauty— embodying attraction, serving a picture of desire to an entire room, and yet making them feel as if the sight is calling just for them. What matters is the desire itself; the dancer is just there to bring it to the forefront.  
  
When Primrose was young, she had a terrible fear of public speaking. At her first dancing lesson with one of the senior dancers in Helgenish's employ, she'd thought dancing would be the same. But what she learned very very quickly was that the audience isn't looking at _her_ — they don't care about Primrose Azelhart, only the temptation she represents. What is a dancer, she was told, but the curve of her waist and the sway of her hips? What is a dancer but the allure of forbidden fruit?  
  
Primrose is a very, very good dancer.  
  
The song finishes with riotous applause from the tavern patrons. They toss coins of various sizes and values at Primrose's feet, and she gives them a brilliant smile as she collects them, blowing a kiss to the audience as she exits the stage. She says _thank you, thank you, you're too kind_ ad nauseum when they swarm her offstage, until they've said their bits and gone on to get more drinks, dazzled by Primrose's performance, leaving Primrose with her hands full of their money and a promising start to her investigation.  
  
Shiena looks duly impressed. "Well, now, I can see why Rufus picked you up when he did," she remarks. "You're a moneymaker, new girl. Find Arianna at the back door and drop the money off with her. If there's enough, I'll slip you a couple at the end of the night. You've earned it."  
  
"Thank you," Primrose says automatically. Shiena melts back into the crowd to do her job and Primrose scans the tavern for the back door. She spots it crammed against the back wall semi-hidden by a red curtain, like it was leading towards something tantalizingly secret. Now to find Arianna…  
  
Arianna finds her first when she reaches the door, and she looks like she just saw a ghost— and Arianna looks so achingly familiar that Primrose denies it at first, until Arianna speaks.  
  
"Lady Primrose," she whispers. "Is it really you? Primrose Azelhart?"  
  
It's been so long since Primrose has heard her full name that she feels her heart tense. "Arianna?" she replies. "I heard your name, but I didn't think…"  
  
Arianna clasps her hands. "Thank the gods," she says. "You vanished so suddenly, all those years ago, and… I never thought I'd see you again! Never in a hundred years! You've grown into such a beautiful young woman, Lady Primrose."  
  
Primrose smiles halfheartedly. "I never thought I'd see you again, either," she says. "Wait— here. Some woman named Shiena told me to give this to you."  
  
Arianna sighs, holding open a little leather bag for Primrose to dump the coins into. "I'm sorry you had to deal with her," she says. "Shiena can be… a lot. But she has our best interests at heart."  
  
"Our?" Primrose repeats. "Arianna, are you working here? How did that happen?"  
  
Arianna falters. "It's… well, I had to find work where I could, you understand. Some time ago, I found myself here, and it's… well, it's enough."  
  
Primrose frowns. "Arianna," she says. "What exactly is your job?"  
  
Arianna's silence answers better than she could.  
  
She shakes her head. "Well, anyway, Lady Primrose," she says. "What brings you here? Where did you _go_ when you left Noblecourt? You know someone there would've taken you in."  
  
Primrose takes a breath. "I'm searching for the men that killed my father, Arianna," she says. "The trail went cold in Sunshade, so I waited there for years, listening. And I've finally found a clue that led me here, to Stillsnow. It's marked here, on this map. I have reason to believe that the man I seek is here."  
  
Primrose pulls the battered map from the inside pocket of her skirt. Arianna goes pale.  
  
Primrose frowns. "Do you recognize this place, Arianna?"  
  
Arianna coughs. "I… no, I don't," she says tightly. "I'm sorry, my lady, but I can't help you."  
  
Primrose is good at telling when someone is lying, and she'd bet good money that Arianna doesn't just know the place, she knows the man, too.  
  
She sighs, taking Arianna's hands in her own. "Arianna, _please_ ," she says. "I need you to tell me what you know."  
  
Arianna purses her lips. "Alright," she concedes. "But not here. It isn't safe. Follow me."  
  
Arianna leads her to a little house on the village outskirts. She opens it with a key she pulled from inside her blouse. The inside is sparse, but warm. There are bedrolls spread out around the fire. A few other women glance at Arianna and Primrose as Arianna brings her to a bedroll at the edge of the sleeping area, but quickly lose interest. The walls are bare stone, the floor warped floorboards with portruding nails. There are a few barrels and crates stacked in the corner, as well as a creaky wardrobe and a small writing desk with a single candle. It feels strikingly familiar to the dancer's dormitory in Sunshade— the only difference is the weather.  
  
"The truth is," Arianna sighs. "This little town has a dark secret, Lady Primrose. That place on your map is a brothel called the Obsidian Parlor. It's the center of operations for establishments all over the Frostlands— establishments like the goings-on Shiena oversees, at the tavern."  
  
Primrose's mouth tastes sour. "Dancers and whores," she mumbles. "I was a fool to think I could escape."  
  
Arianna's voice trembles. "I'm one of the whores, Lady Primrose," she says. "I service men who come from Flamesgrace, men with reputations to uphold in that holy town. Because of that, the existence of the brothel remains a secret… as does the existence of its workers."  
  
Primrose breathes. "So the map leads to this brothel? The Obsidian Parlor?"  
  
Arianna shakes her head. "Not quite," she says. "It leads to a meeting place— the place where a stagecoach comes to take customers to the brothel itself."  
  
"Customers… and the whores themselves, I suppose," Primrose realizes. "Alright. It seems I'll have to board this carriage. Thank you, Arianna." She stands and leaves, and she's halfway down the front steps when Arianna catches her wrist.  
  
Arianna swallows. "Lady Primrose, I can't let you— I can't let you do that to yourself! You're an _Azelhart_ , not some— some common street whore!"  
  
Primrose grits her teeth. "I was a dancer of Sunshade," she says, firmly enough that Arianna closes her mouth. "I spent _ten years_ dancing for men who looked at me like a cut of meat in sparkly jewelry, all so I could chase after the ghost of a lead for some revenge quest. But do you know the truth, Arianna?"  
  
Arianna, wordless, shakes her head.  
  
"The truth is that I would do it all over again, as many times as it took me," she growls. "I would sleep with all the men in Orsterra— I'd sleep with men _ten times_ more despicable than I'd ever seen, if it meant that I could see the men who killed my father bleed out and _die_ at the end of my dagger, Arianna, I swear to all the gods, I would."  
  
She swallows. "I've already left behind whatever dignity I had as an Azelhart," she says. "I've lost the right to call myself noble and virtuous. But gods, Arianna, I don't _care_. I don't care what becomes of me as long as the men who killed my father end up dead by my hand."  
  
Arianna's lip shakes. "M-my lady," she manages.  
  
Primrose sighs. "I'm sorry I frightened you, Arianna, truly," she says. "But I'm not the little girl I was when I left Noblecourt. I have to do this."  
  
"Aye," says a too-familiar voice. "But prithee, do not attempten to do it alone."  
  
Primrose whirls. H'aanit is leaning against the trunk of a tree, Linde at her feet, and neither of them look particularly pleased.  
  
"H'aanit," she breathes. "How long have you been there?"  
  
H'aanit shrugs. "It matteren not. Was I a fool to thinketh that thou wouldst follow the rule we hath agreed upon, that none of us would leave alone lest something ill occureth?"  
  
Primrose sighs. "I'm sorry, H'aanit," she says. "I just—"  
  
"Thou madeth young Tressa worry," H'aanit scolds. "Saveth thine apologies for her."  
  
Arianna frowns. "Lady Primrose, who is…"  
  
Primrose grins abashedly. "Well, since Sunshade, I… haven't been traveling alone," she says. "I _may_ have found seven new friends. But don't worry, they're good people."  
  
"Primrose!" calls Tressa, waving as she runs towards the house, skidding to a stop on the cobblestone, Olberic shortly behind. "What's with running out without saying goodbye, huh?"  
  
"I'm just pleased to see you're alright," Olberic added. "I admit, after what happened with Cyrus and then Ophilia, I feared the worst."  
  
Primrose chuckles halfheartedly. "No kidnapping here, for once," she promises. "I'm sorry I worried you all. Unfortunately, I'll have to worry you again."  
  
Tressa's smile faded. "What?"  
  
"I found out how to get to one of my targets," she says. "There's a stagecoach that'll take me to the brothel where he spends his time, and I doubt any of you could pass for whores." She pauses. "Well, Tressa might, but I don't want her to."  
  
"If you're going with Lady Primrose to provide backup," Arianna spoke up. "There's a cave system leading to the manse not far from where the stagecoach stops. If you're not seen…"  
  
Primrose felt a weight lift from her chest. "Arianna, you're a blessing," she says. "Thank you— truly, I mean it."  
  
Arianna beams. "I'm just glad to help," she says. "But you ought to hurry. I have to get back to the tavern— Shiena's going to chew my ear off, but…"  
  
"Go on," Primrose nods. "The next time I see you, the Left Crow will be dead. I swear it on House Azelhart."  
  
Arianna scurries back towards the tavern and Primrose turns to Olberic, Tressa, and H'aanit, assembled and facing her as if waiting for orders.  
  
She hesitates. "You don't have to do this," she says.  
  
" _You_ didn't have to help me fight those pirates in Rippletide, or that swindler in Quarrycrest," Tressa replies. "But here we are."  
  
"You needn't fight alone anymore," Olberic says. "That's why we travel together."  
  
Primrose folds her arms, very stubbornly ignoring the lump in her throat. "Well, now that you've gone and _said_ all that," she says. "Alright, fine. It'd be silly to refuse, anyway."  
  
Tressa cracks her knuckles. "Alright! Let's go be sneaky and do crime things! I love crimes!"  
  
And map in hand, Primrose feels the smile on her face as she follows her half of the team to the next step in the journey— and for once, she lets it linger.


	4. We're Only Half Awake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they just keep getting longer im so sorry

The Left Wing lies dead on the floor of his own brothel, and Primrose, bloodied and battle-worn and with his life staining the silk of her dancing flats, stabs her dagger into his unbeating heart and twists, watching the blood gush like she's cut open a pomegranate. She doesn't know why; maybe it's because she wants to make sure he's really dead, or maybe it's because she's relished this thought for ten years and wants to hammer in that she's making progress, that she's twenty-three years old and alive and she's one-third of the way to avenging her father. And maybe part of it is that he deserves it, savoring the thought that he will never again touch a woman like Primrose has been touched— savoring the thought that there will be no more Primroses in the world, at least from him.   
   
They've just arrived in Saintsbridge, in all its quaint and charming glory, and they're making a course for Grandport and then Noblecourt, where they aim to be within the next four months. That's the lead that Primrose found in the Left Wing's mail— the Right Wing is someone of importance, and he's planning a party to celebrate some big event. Primrose, one way or another, is _going_ to be at that party.  
  
The day after they arrive, Primrose wakes early after a night of restless sleep and unsettling dreams, when the sky's just started to grow red with the dawn. The inn was full, so they camped, and Primrose knows that she's not the first one awake by the fact that she can hear the crackling of the campfire in the center of their campsite. Linde is dozing, as large cats are wont to do, and she lifts her head from where it had been on Tressa's stomach when she hears Primrose stir, but soon puts it back down.   
  
Primrose stretches, working motion back into her stiff bones. Her hair falls in brown waves down her back and over her face, surely full of tangles and probably at least a few twigs and leaves because that _always_ happens when they camp. Goosebumps rise on her bare shoulders when the morning chill hits them, and for a second she wants nothing more than to hide back under her blanket until it warms up. But she doesn't, and instead pulls a shawl from her bag and pulls it on over her nightgown.   
  
H'aanit's tending to the campfire, sitting in front of it and cleaning the blade of her axe while occasionally checking on the cured sausages roasting over the flame. She glances at Primrose when she catches movement out of the corner of her eye, and offers Primrose a polite nod.   
  
"Good morrow," she says, quietly, to avoid waking the others. Tressa and Ophilia are still asleep, as are Cyrus and Olberic. Alfyn's bedroll is empty, oddly enough, but since Primrose doesn't see Therion either, she assumes they must've gone off somewhere. Buddy system, and all.  
  
"Mm," Primrose hums. She rubs at her eyes until they stop feeling gummy. "You're up early."  
  
H'aanit shrugs. "I often wake early. 'Tis the best time to hunt, I hath found."  
  
"I suppose it would be," Primrose admits. She slips her boots on and goes to sit by the campfire with H'aanit. H'aanit's axe is still fairly new, its handle not yet worn to the shape of H'aanit's grasp, and its blade is still free of chips and battle scars. It cleaves through wood easily and monsters even easier than that. Unfortunately, the monster blood stains worse than the wood does.  
  
H'aanit hums. "Didst thou sleep well?" she asks.   
  
Primrose thinks of how she's slept for the past several days. She thinks it's less sleep and more of that drowsy syrup between asleep and awake, when her thoughts are unfiltered and disjointed and collide into one another like doodles in Tressa's journal. In her mind's eye she watches Rufus the Left Crow gargle blood through punctured lungs, but the blood is black tar that traps her ankles and climbs up her calves and pulls at her clothes, dragging her into its depths. She holds tight to her dagger trying to claw her way out, but when she looks down, the dagger has become a dove, dead of a snapped neck and it was her hand that did it, and she hears _murderer, murderer_ in the familiar voices of her fellow travelers. The dove becomes a snake that hisses and bites her and the pain is so intense that her stomach lurches with nausea, and even she begs Alfyn for some kind of pain relief, but all he does is turn away. That hurts the most of all of what her mind conjures in its half-asleep state— the idea that _Alfyn_ , sweet, wholesome, all-loving Alfyn, would look upon her in her time of need and decide that she is not worth saving; that she is lower now than anyone else could possibly be, that she is the one person he could ever meet that does not deserve his care.   
  
So, no, Primrose did not sleep particularly well.  
  
She shrugs. "I slept alright."  
  
H'aanit nods, but her nod is preceded by a solemn, contemplative look at Primrose, as if she knows that Primrose is lying. H'aanit is frustratingly difficult for Primrose to read— she says what needs to be said and nothing else, unlike Therion, who makes it very clear (if one's as accustomed to reading these nonverbal signs like Primrose is) that his taciturnity is a prickly defense mechanism. Where Therion is a cactus, H'aanit is a cliff face; there's doubtless a wealth of treasures beneath the surface, but there are no barbs keeping anything out. It just simply _is_.   
  
Really, it has no reason to intrigue Primrose the way it does. Perhaps it's because, despite everything, she likes a challenge.  
  
H'aanit changes the subject. "I expect we shall proceedeth onwards soon. Ist thou packed?"   
  
"You know me, ready to go at a moment's notice," Primrose says. Not having very much to her name helps in that sense.  
  
H'aanit cracks a smile. "Aye, I do."  
  
"You know where Alfyn went?" Primrose asks, sitting down more comfortably in front of the campfire.  
  
"Methinks he went to town," H'aanit guesses. "He departed early."   
  
"Strange," Primrose remarks. "He's not typically an early bird, is he?"  
  
"Verily," H'aanit agrees. "I hope he went in search of supplies. 'Tis smart to do before we departeth." She pauses, and looks up. "Ah. Speak of Galdera, and lo, he appeareth." She nods to the path to town, where Alfyn and Therion are returning. Alfyn looks uncharacteristically pensive, and Therion has half his face buried in his scarf, which is how Primrose knew something is bothering both of them.   
  
"Good morrow," H'aanit calls to them.   
  
"Mornin', H'aanit," Alfyn replies, though it's halfhearted. "And Primrose."   
  
Primrose nods to him. "Where'd you two get off to so early? Nothing illegal, I hope."   
  
"You know us," Therion says flatly. "We're good, clean folk. No crimes here." Primrose chuckles, and she sees Therion crack a smile over his scarf.  
  
"Ah, I couldn't sleep," Alfyn shrugs. "Decided to take a walk. Therion went with me. Found this guy, Miguel. He was hurt, so I patched him up." There's something there that Alfyn isn't saying, and if the glance Therion gives her is any indication, it's important.   
  
Alfyn hesitates, but keeps going. "There was this other apothecary there first," he says. "This guy Ogen. And, I mean, _I_ can't tell another guy how to do his job, but he refused to help Miguel. Said his life wasn't worth saving."   
  
Primrose feels prickles on the back of her neck. Her dreams feel uncomfortably close to reality now. "What did you do?"  
  
"Well, I don't believe that bull," Alfyn scoffed. "That's the oath we take as apothecaries, doctors, healers— we can't deny treatment to anyone for any reason. Or, well, we shouldn't. Not everyone abides by it like I do." He pauses. "Which is probably why I'm broke."  
  
"He's stable for now," Alfyn adds. "I'm letting him rest at his place 'til lunchtime, and then I'm gonna head back to check on him."  
  
H'aanit hums. "He ought be grateful. 'Tis not all healers that are generous as thou, Alfyn."   
  
"Unfortunately," Alfyn sighs. "I mean— c'mon. I don't think any one person has the right to decide for good who deserves to live or die. Shit happens, and you can think whatever you want, but deserving?" He shrugs. "That's the gods' business. Ain't none of ours."   
  
That hangs uncomfortably in the air for a long second, cut off by Olberic shifting and snoring, not awake but getting there, and reminding the rest of the party that it was still really early. Therion uses this as an opportunity to stand up. "I'm going to grab some more firewood," he says. "Primrose, you want to come with?" The way he looks at her when he says it makes it clear that this is not about firewood.  
  
"Sure," she says. "Gods know _your_ skinny little arms can't carry it all."   
  
"Yeah, yeah," Therion grumbles as they leave the camp. When they're out of earshot, just inside the woods, he looks back to Primrose.   
  
"So what do you want?" Primrose asks. "I know this isn't about firewood."   
  
"Yeah, no shit," Therion snorts. "It's about Alfyn and this morning. With Miguel." He says the name like it's sour on his tongue, tasting the bitterness of past betrayal.   
  
"I figured he wasn't telling the whole story," Primrose says, folding her arms and leaning against a nearby tree.   
  
"We ran into another apothecary," Therion tells her. "An old guy. He saw Miguel, injured, and didn't treat him. Said his life wasn't worth saving."   
  
Primrose frowns. "Why?"  
  
"Well, from what I could tell, the guy was clearly in some kind of fight," Therion says. "He had a knife on him, and too much blood to all be from that gash. If I had to guess, I'd say he's a highwayman or something." He shrugs. "Lots of apothecaries refuse to treat criminals, or whoever they _think_ are criminals. You know."   
  
Primrose grimaces. "Yeah, I know." She's seen too many girls die in the Sunshade back streets because there are no apothecaries willing to get mixed up with Helgenish's business and the trouble that goes with it. That _went_ with it, at least.   
  
"I don't trust him," Therion sums up. "And Primrose, I hate to ask you this, but I think if any of us is gonna get information out of him, you're the one to do it, unless I wanna send in the lions, and I don't think that's gonna do much." He jabs his thumb irreverently back in the campsite's direction, presumably at H'aanit.   
  
"You want me to seduce him," Primrose says.  
  
"No! Well, yeah," Therion concedes. "Sorry. Can't imagine you like it much."   
  
Primrose shrugs. "It's second nature at this point. Like a job." Really, her job hasn't changed much. It just involves more monster-fighting than it had back in Sunshade, and she's allowed to _kill_ her marks instead of being resigned to just thinking about it.  
  
Therion gives her a look that she can't quite decipher, but doesn't say anything. He pokes around the underbrush and picks up a decent-looking stick. "I'll take you to where Miguel's staying, but he can't know I'm here, or he'll know something's up with Alfyn."   
  
"So you want me to go to an injured man's house, get him to let me in, and then somehow seductively interrogate him about his day job?" Primrose sums up.   
  
"Yeah, pretty much."  
  
Primrose shrugs. "Alright. Sounds easy enough."   
  


* * *

  
  
Miguel's house is on the edge of town. It's a dumpy kind of place— tiny, with a patchy roof and little windows, all of weather-beaten wood and battered thatch. The shutters hang off the boarded-up windows with rusty, bent hinges. The terrain surrounding it is rocky and uneven, and it's right at the border of the nearby woods. The only sign that anyone lives there at all is the weak stream of smoke coming from the little pipe chimney.   
  
Primrose looks dubiously to Therion.   
  
"Just do your thing," he says, quite unhelpfully. "I'll be around. Don't worry about it."   
  
"You put a lot of faith in me," she replies. "And what if this doesn't work and he sees right through this bullshit?"   
  
Therion shrugs. "Guess we die."   
  
"Peachy."   
  
Well, it's not like she hasn't done this before. Alluring is kind of her thing, after all. It's also, for the most part, ridiculously easy, unless she's trying to seduce someone like, say, Cyrus, but he's a special case. Therion's pretty good at reading people, though, so if _he_ thinks she can do this, then the least she can do is try. She undoes a few buttons on her blouse and touches up her makeup, then nods to Therion. Therion melts into the shadows.   
  
The first step is to knock on the door. Primrose hears some shuffling around inside, and after a minute or so, a lanky redheaded man with two bruised eyes and bandages wrapped around his torso answers. He groans wearily, leaning on a crudely-made crutch for support.   
  
"Hell do you want?" he grumbles. "I'm broke. Go 'way."  
  
"Easy, I'm not here to sell you nothin'," Primrose promises. "I'm just lost, is all. D'you know which way to town?"  
  
Miguel scratches his head. "Uhh, 'bout a half-hour's walk north," he says. "S'a path around here somewhere. Don't remember where."  
  
"Oh, just a half-hour?" Primrose remarks. She chuckles, looking appropriately self-admonishing. "Wouldn't you know it. I got myself lost a half-hour outside town. Every gods-damned time, I _swear_ …"   
  
Miguel chuckles. "Bad sense of direction?"  
  
"Oh, honey, you don't know the _half_ of it," Primrose replies. "My gram always used to tell me I couldn't walk around a block without gettin' turned around. But, y'know, these trees all look the same after a while! It just ain't fair."  
  
"S'pose not," Miguel admits. "Look, sweetheart, I'm a little banged up right now. I'm under doctor's orders to lie down 'til he comes back with lunch."  
  
Primrose acts like she's noticing the bandages for the first time, and looks appropriately shocked. "Oh, no, I didn't even notice! I'm sorry, sweetie. Looks like it hurt."  
  
"Ah, it's not so bad," Miguel shrugs with one shoulder. "The doc put some salve on that got rid of the worst of it. Now s'just sore when I move too fast."  
  
"Oh, wow, incredible," Primrose remarks. "The guy must be a real talented doctor, if it helped that much."  
  
Miguel chuckles. "Yeah, must be. I know this for sure, though— I'd be right up the creek if he hadn't come along."  
  
"Well, I'm glad you're feeling a little better now," Primrose says. She glances back towards the forest and sighs. "I should probably head back, huh? I've taken up enough of your time."  
  
"Ah, I don't mind," Miguel shrugs. "S'been a while since I could have a real conversation with someone. If it ain't urgent, you wanna come in and sit down for a spell? I don't got much, but…"  
  
Primrose gives him a smile. "Y'know, sweetie, I think I'd love that."   
  
The inside of the house is as shabby as the outside. There are piles of dirt in the corners, straw strewn across the floor, and spiderwebs in the rafters. Light seeps in through holes in the roof and the cracks between the boards nailed over the windows. The only furniture is a bedroll lain out next to a fire that's mostly gone out. The place is cluttered with old crates, all empty and some of them broken, a few barrels and a few sacks of grain. Some old tools are scattered around— a watering can, a saw, a hatchet. There's a cart with a smashed railing and a broken axel in the back corner. A few shabby pairs of socks and an undershirt are draped over a makeshift rack to dry in front of the fireplace, and there's a traveler's pack propped against a crate with a broken lantern set on top.  
  
Miguel eases himself back down onto the bedroll, picks up an iron poker, and prods at the charcoal. The embers glow a weak red. He grumbles, takes a few sticks from the pile of firewood, and tosses them into the hearth. He sets the poker down when the fire spreads to the sticks, slowly growing in light and heat. Primrose sits down on the other side of the fireplace.  
  
"I don't think I caught your name," Primrose tells him.   
  
"Ah, Miguel," he says. "So what's a pretty girl like you doin' all the way out here?"  
  
"Well, I was on my way home from meeting someone in Riverford, but." Primrose sighs. "I must've taken a wrong turn somewhere along the way."  
  
"Awful long walk," Miguel comments.  
  
Primrose shrugs. "You do what you have to do to get by."  
  
"Ah." Miguel nods. "You a thief, too?"  
  
"Me? No, no," Primrose laughs it off. "Nah, I'm not smart enough for that. I'm a dancer."  
  
"So, a whore," Miguel clarifies.   
  
"Essentially."  
  
Miguel shifts and winces. "Well, damn, if you'd come by yesterday, I might've paid for a little of your time."  
  
Primrose snorts. "Honey, you couldn't afford me."  
  
Miguel grins slyly. "You wanna bet?"  
  
Primrose arches an eyebrow. "I'm listening."  
  
"So, deal is," Miguel says. "I don't got squat _now_ , yeah. But gimme a day or two and I'll have all you charge and more."  
  
"And how are you gonna get all those leaves?" Primrose asks.   
  
Miguel jabs his thumb towards Saintsbridge. "This one-horse town is full of gullible idiots. I've got a contact that deals in, ah, _live goods_ , shall we say. I play my cards right, I'll get paid for my time and effort and have a nice sum of ransom money to tuck in my piggy bank." He grins like a man who knows exactly what he's doing and how it'll affect the people around him, and doesn't care one little bit.  
  
Primrose feels nauseous. She's met people from everywhere in the criminal underworld, from pickpockets to swindlers to debt collectors. She of all people knows that when times are rough, your own survival comes first. But nobody kidnaps and sells others into slavery if they're just trying to survive.   
  
"Y'see, sweetheart," Miguel says, still grinning in smug satisfaction. "This world we live in and the people who run it just take and take. If that's how it works, then it's my gods-given right to take what I deserve right back. Folks like us, the scum at the bottom of the barrel, we don't get to work and buy what we want like the good folk. We either scrape by doing what we can justify to ourselves 'til we're just another body in the street, or we wise up and take what we need. But you know, why stop there? If you're already taking, why settle for a cabin and a plot of land? Take _more_. Take everything that glitters. Take 'til you're as rich as the folks you took from. Won't be a _long_ life, but when they catch you, you'll die knowin' your name is going in the record books."  
  
Primrose could do it. She could kill him now and save Alfyn the trouble. She'd be doing the world a service, getting rid of slime like him. But her muscles won't move and her lungs won't breathe.   
  
"You," she says. "Are a _terrible_ person, aren't you?"  
  
Miguel grins and shrugs. "Better to die in infamy than live in anonymity, I say."  
  
"Well, sounds like you've got yourself quite the plan," Primrose remarks. "You ought to drop me a line when you make it big."   
  
"Oh, love, I could buy your whole brothel and all the whores that work in it when I make it big," Miguel laughs. "But sure, I'll remember you. That set your mind at ease?"  
  
"I'll take it," Primrose agrees. She glances at the windows. "I should probably get going. But it was nice chatting with you."   
  
Miguel nods. "Don't get lost again."  
  
"Can't promise that," Primrose calls as she shuts the door behind her. She doesn't remember when she clenched her fists, or when her nails started to dig little divots into her palms.  
  
Therion appears just behind the house. He gestures urgently for her to move. She shakes out her hands and moves.   
  
"I heard Alfyn coming down the road," Therion whispers from the cover of the forest. "We need to get back to camp before someone comes to look for us."   
  
"Listen, Therion," Primrose insists. "Therion, it's worse than you thought. He's not a highwayman, he's a slaver."   
  
Therion's eye widens. "Are you serious?"   
  
"He told me himself," Primrose says. "He kidnaps civilians, holds them hostage until he gets ransom money, and then sells them to another slaver."   
  
"Well, fuck me stupid," Therion groans. "We have to kill him."  
  
"Okay, wait, let's think logically," she decides. "I don't think Alfyn will believe either of us if we tell him."  
  
"Well, we can't just wait around and wait for Sicko Steve to fuck up," he counters. "I _knew_ I didn't trust that guy. I don't want him getting the chance to even lay a _finger_ on Alfyn."  
  
"Listen!" she hisses. "You remember how pissed he was at us for stealing the customs ledger from Goldshore? Didn't he give you the same 'don't commit crimes on my behalf' lecture that he gave me?"  
  
Therion snorts. "So you're saying you're gonna _listen?_ The guy doesn't know what's good for him."  
  
"I'm saying," Primrose replies. "That if we're going to kill our friend here, we need to do it in a way that'll result in Alfyn never finding out."   
  
Therion frowns, but then his eye widens. "He's coming this way," he hisses. "Shh!"  
  
Primrose presses herself against a stack of crates stacked by the back wall of the house, blocking her from view of the path. Therion shoves himself in the narrow crevice between the wall and an old barn door. She holds her breath, not daring to move a muscle. Inside the house, she hears Alfyn's footsteps going up to the front of the house and knocking twice.  
  
"Hey, Miguel, it's me," he says. "I got us some lunch."  
  
"Door's open," Miguel calls. Alfyn opens it. His footsteps creak across the weathered floorboards.   
  
"Alrighty, let's see here," Alfyn says, sitting down. "Found some cheese, bread, and a few apples. With some of this sausage here, that'll be a fine meal, and it'll last you a couple days."  
  
"Didn't you promise a bottle of wine?" Miguel teases.   
  
Alfyn laughs. "Yeah, here it is. I was saving the best for last."  
  
A bit of shuffling. "Good vintage," Miguel says. "Aw, doc, how much did you spend on me?"  
  
"The guy at the vineyard gave me a discount 'cause I helped him get his cart out of a pothole," Alfyn replies. "Cheese and bread cost me about two leaves at the market. Found the apples growing wild in a grove south of here, and one of my friends cooked up this sausage this morning. Didn't anyone tell you not to look a gift horse in the mouth, Miguel?"  
  
Miguel chuckles. "Ah, fair point."   
  
There's a few beats of quiet; pouring wine and tearing off chunks of bread and cheese. Primrose realizes how hungry she is, and regrets not at least staying in camp long enough to eat some of those sausages.  
  
"How's the salve working?" Alfyn asks. "How's the pain?"  
  
"Great, s'far as I can tell," Miguel says. "Hurts, but only when I move too fast."  
  
"Yeah, there'll be some bruising for a while," Alfyn says. "But you got lucky with that gash, buddy. It just grazed you. Could've been a lot worse."  
  
"I say my real luck was runnin' into you," Miguel replies. "Y'know, I, uh… I can't pay you."  
  
 _What a liar_ , Therion mouths.   
  
"Don't worry about it," Alfyn insists. "I'd never charge someone who couldn't pay me."  
  
"You must work for free an awful lot," Miguel says.  
  
Alfyn barks out a laugh. "Ha! Yeah, I guess so. Must be why I'm still broke."  
  
"Well, here's to bein' broke, then," Miguel decides.   
  
"Cheers, bud," Alfyn agrees. The two wooden tankards clunk together. It's quiet again. Therion has his hand clenched around the hilt of his knife and looks like he's keeping himself from charging in and stabbing Miguel himself with sheer willpower. Primrose understands.  
  
"So, Miguel," Alfyn says, after a while. "I want to ask you something."  
  
"Fire away."  
  
Alfyn hesitates. "I… heard a few rumors in town about you. You're not that popular around Saintsbridge, are you? In fact, uh, most folks I talked to call you a crook and a murderer."  
  
Miguel heaves a sigh. "You found out, huh?"  
  
"I'm not gonna turn you over to anyone," Alfyn promises. "I just have to know the truth, Miguel."  
  
Miguel shifts, setting his tankard down on the floor with a soft clunk. "Alright, doc," he says. "I'll give you the truth."  
  
No he fucking won't, Primrose mouths to Therion. Therion nods empathetically.  
  
"I've… done some bad stuff," Miguel admits. "Some stealing. Some cheating. And yeah, I _did_ have to kill a couple folks. But, doc, Alfyn, you gotta understand— I _had_ to do it. I need the money. I have three hungry mouths to feed back home."  
  
Alfyn sighs. "I understand," he says. "I don't like it, but I understand why you did it."  
  
"You do what you have to do to get by, you know?" Miguel shrugs.  
  
Primrose looks at the wall of the house with shocked outrage at Miguel stealing her line, especially since she knows that it's bullshit coming from him.  
  
"Yeah," Alfyn says. "Yeah, I know. Look, Miguel, I don't think you're a bad guy."  
  
"Really?" Miguel sounds too hopeful for a man who boasted to Primrose about taking whatever he wants and damn the consequences.   
  
"Yeah, really," Alfyn promises. "But I want you to do something for me."  
  
"Anything, doc, name it."  
  
"When all this is over," Alfyn says. "No more stealing, okay? No more sketchy jobs, no more cheating, no more lying. There's honest work out there for you, I know it."   
  
Miguel is quiet. But then he nods. "Alright. No more stealing."  
  
"Good." Alfyn shuffles as he stands back up. "Get some rest, alright? I'll be back tomorrow to check on you and get you some more of that salve, so you can apply more if you need it."  
  
"Thanks, doc."  
  
"Thank me by getting better, yeah?"  
  
Miguel chuckles. "Whatever you say."  
  
The front door creaks and shuts as Alfyn leaves the house. Primrose and Therion wait until the sound of his footsteps fades completely, and then they wait a little longer, to come out from their hiding spots and retreat away from Miguel's house.   
  
"That lying son of a bitch," Primrose seethes. "He has the nerve to talk to Alfyn about how he does what he _has_ to to _survive_. I bet he doesn't even have a family! We have to kill him."  
  
"Okay, okay, here's the plan. We leave for Wellspring tomorrow," Therion says. "Once we're a ways away from Saintsbridge, I'll sneak back and stab him. Quick and clean. No one's going to know he's dead until they find his body ripped apart by scavengers in the woods."  
  
Primrose forces in a breath through her teeth. "Thank you," she says. "It's what the bastard deserves."  
  
"Alfyn won't know a thing," Therion promises. "I'm a thief, not an assassin, but it'll get the job done. We just have to bide our time until the deed is done."  
  


* * *

  
  
The rest of the day passes without incident. Primrose spends it in camp watching Olberic help Tressa practice sword forms and idly polishing and re-polishing her Azelhart dagger. She's long since washed away all the blood, but somehow it still feels like there's some still there, some minute amount at the junction where the blade meets the hilt, or caught in the crevices of the intricately crafted cross-guard, or perhaps a coating too thin for her to see that nonetheless covers the blade and will never go away.  
  
"If thou persisteth as such, thine blade will wear thin," H'aanit tells her from a few feet in front of her, seated by the campfire with Linde's head on her leg. She nods to Primrose's dagger and the cloth in her hand.   
  
"Oh," Primrose says. "Right. I suppose it's as good as it's going to get."  
  
H'aanit nods. She doesn't say anything else, but Linde removes herself from H'aanit's side and rubs against Primrose, nudging her cheek with her nose. Primrose relents, reaching up and scratching behind her ears. Linde purrs happily, plopping her head down on Primrose's lap and curling around her like she always does with H'aanit, her fluffy tail papping the ground contentedly.  
  
"Thou hast missed breakfast," H'aanit says. "'Tis the fourth day in a row."  
  
"I hadn't realized you paid such close attention, H'aanit," Primrose teases. "One might think you're fond of me."  
  
H'aanit blinks, perplexed. "I am," she says. "I trusteth thee to guard mine blind spots, as I would any of our friends."  
  
"I was— oh, never mind." Primrose shakes her head. "Don't worry about me. I just haven't been hungry lately."   
  
"Wouldst this be caused by what happened in Stillsnow?" H'aanit asks. Primrose winces. H'aanit nods in understanding.   
  
"He needed to die," Primrose says. "I _wanted_ to kill him. I'm _glad_ I did."  
  
"'Tis not easy to take a life," H'aanit says. "Even knowing I hunt to feed my people, people who dependeth on me, 'tis oft difficult to loose an arrow at an innocent creature. But the beast in thine hunt was not innocent."  
  
"Then why does it still hurt so much?" Primrose murmurs. She feels nauseous, and curls her hand into a fist in the fabric of her shirt.   
  
H'aanit hums. "That, I cannot answeren."  
  
"Helpful," Primrose mutters. "I suppose it's what I deserve. I'm a killer, after all."   
  
She takes a shaky breath. H'aanit says nothing, but Primrose knows she listened. Not that it helps her feel any better.  
  
"We say, in S'warkii," H'aanit says, after a while. "That all life art a gift from the forest. We teacheth our children to never harm other creatures, be they man or beast or bug. When we learneth to hunt, we take not which we doth not need."   
  
"Is this supposed to make me feel better?" Primrose chuckles halfheartedly.   
  
"Fie, letten me finish," H'aanit says. "Dost thou recalleth Ghisarna?"  
  
Primrose does. "That monster?"  
  
"Aye," H'aanit nods. "It knew not what it hath done. All it knew was that it must kill. But 'twas not a hunt; Ghisarna did not eat that which it killed. It simply took the lives that the forest gaveth. It did not need what it took. And lo, its presence harmed the forest, and thus I could not let it live."  
  
Primrose is quiet.   
  
"Thine beast, the Left Crow," H'aanit says. "He cared not for any that he hurt or who were killed by his actions. His presence harmed the forest, too. Thus, nor could you let him live."   
  
"What are you trying to tell me?" Primrose asks.  
  
"Thou art not a killer, Primrose," H'aanit says. "Thou art a hunter."  
  


* * *

  
  
Primrose doesn't sleep much better their second night in camp, and knowing that the question of if some lives are worth saving over others is on Alfyn's mind as well as hers doesn't help much. Primrose always did hate philosophy class.  
  
Wellspring is a fair distance away, so they leave in the morning, after breakfast and after making sure they have the supplies needed to cross the desert. The campsite is all packed up— eight lives measured in rucksacks and bedrolls and traveling rations. Tressa's run through the inventory list with Cyrus for the third time and she's started a fourth to be very sure that Cyrus didn't forget anything, all the weaponry is sheathed but available should the need arise, everyone's eaten, everything is packed, and the campfire is out.   
  
Tressa claps her hands together. "Alright! Last call for anyone who needs anything in Saintsbridge!"  
  
Therion raises his hand. "Yeah, I gotta piss," he says. "Back in five minutes."  
  
Tressa sighs. "I asked that _ten minutes ago!"_  
  
"Didn't need to _go_ ten minutes ago," Therion calls as he disappears into the woods.   
  
As he does, he and Primrose lock eyes. _Now_ , is what it means. Now, Miguel dies.  
  
Tressa scoffs, knocking Primrose from her thoughts of righteous murder. "Who pees for five _whole_ minutes? I swear."  
  
Primrose leans against a tree trunk and examines her nails for the five minutes Therion asked for. He returns after four, but just from his quick pace and the look in his eye, Primrose can tell that something is very wrong.  
  
"There's a situation in town," he says grimly. "We should go now, and go armed." He looks at Alfyn. "You're not gonna like this, medicine man."  
  
Alfyn does not like this.  
  
Alfyn does not like this one bit.  
  
It's a sight Primrose can't say she didn't expect. Miguel stands on a footbridge leading out of town, a knife in his hand and smugness in his eyes. There's a boy, maybe ten or eleven, in a tight hostage grip under one arm, standing very still lest he accidentally wiggle into the knife held under his chin. Primrose sees Alfyn's hands go limp.   
  
"You heard me," he shouts to the crowd of civilians gathered, including the boy's mother. "All the money you have, to this bridge in two hours' time, or the boy gets it! Am I clear?"   
"Miguel!" Alfyn shouts. "What'n hell's name are you doing?"  
  
Miguel ignores him. "Two hours!" he repeats. "And if it ain't enough, maybe I'll take another kid. Maybe two slit throats will get you to cough up my money!"   
  
He backs away from the crowd, then turns, dragging the boy into the forest. The mother breaks down in tears, burying her face into another woman's chest. Alfyn's jaw is clenched. He looks like he did in Goldshore, except the thing he's fighting has a name and a face and an ultimatum.   
  
Olberic unsheathes his sword. "You heard him," he says. "We have two hours to rescue that boy. We ought to get started." And nobody's going to argue with Olberic when he puts it like that.  
  
The woods are dense and dark. The path through them forks and twists, narrow and ill-trodden and lit sparingly by weak oil lanterns on posts. Primrose's keen ears pick up voices, Miguel's and the boy's and others, occasionally. The team doesn't talk more than is necessary. Tension is high, beating in Primrose's ears with the beat of her heart.   
  
"Redheads," Therion grumbles as they hurry down another path. "It's always the fucking redheads! Can I not go one _fucking_ day without the gods shitting in my dinner by making me deal with some sociopathic redheaded cockwart with entitlement issues?" Nobody feels up to responding to him, but Therion doesn't really care.   
  
They find Miguel in a grove with the tree branches seeming to arch around him, as if shaping themselves to form the throne upon which Miguel fancies himself. He grabs the boy again when he sees the team enter the grove, weapons at the ready, eight against one. Most would balk at such odds. To his credit, Miguel doesn't so much as flinch. He's an asshole, but he's not cowardly, that's for sure.  
  
Miguel's eyes scan the team and settle on Primrose. "Well, if it ain't the friendly whore," he chuckles. "Change your mind on how much to charge? Or—" he snorts. "Ah, wait, _I_ see what's goin' on."  
  
"Okay, yeah, I don't," Alfyn says, his brow furrowed. "First, Miguel, what the _fuck_ , man? And second— Primrose, you _know_ him?"  
  
"It's a long story," Primrose says tightly.   
  
"Oh, c'mon, sweetheart, don't be like that," Miguel tuts, his words and his tone so familiar it makes Primrose's skin crawl. "Did the time we share mean _nothin_ ' to you?"  
  
"You shut your gods-damned mouth," Therion growls.   
  
"Hah! I recognize you, too, peepers," Miguel realizes. "So you _and_ the doc _and_ the tart were all buddies this whole time?"  
  
"You, too?" Alfyn demands, looking at Therion. "Okay, what's going on? Miguel?"  
  
Miguel grins. "Heya, doc. I'm feelin' worlds better. That salve you made makes me feel like a new man."  
  
"I thought we had an agreement," Alfyn growls. The growl isn't fooling anyone, though— anyone who looks can see his hand tremble around the hilt of his axe, see the hurt in his eyes, the set of his jaw like he's determined not to waver.   
  
Miguel shrugs admittance, like he's confessing to having eaten the last apple in the bowl. "Sorry, bud. You do what you have to do to get by."   
  
_That's my fucking line_ , Primrose wants to snap. But her jaw won't move.  
  
"I told you, doc, I've got four hungry mouths to feed back home," he says.   
  
"Bastard," Therion growls. "I'll kill you— I'll fucking _kill_ you! You fucking _LIAR!"_  
  
He lunges, but he stops short when he feels Alfyn's hand on his arm. Alfyn breathes deep, in and then out.

"Four mouths," he says to Miguel. "You told me you had three."

Miguel chuckles. "Did I? Ah, I can never keep track."

"Do everyone a favor and stuff a cactus down your throat," Therion spits.  
  
"You two knew about this?" Alfyn demands. "You, what, spied on him? You went and— and seduced him, Primrose, is that it?"  
  
Primrose's throat feels dry.  
  
Therion clenches his jaw. "No, don't get mad at her," he says. " _I_ asked her to do it. I just— I didn't trust him. I knew he was hiding _something_ , so I asked Primrose to see what she could get out of him. And he went on this spiel about how it's his gods-given right to take what he wants a-a-and dying in infamy instead of living in anonymity."   
  
"We were going to kill him," Primrose finally says, her voice raw. The color drains from Alfyn's face. "Quietly. You weren't even going to know. Today, in fact."   
  
"You—" Alfyn manages. He drops Therion's arm. _"What?"_  
  
"He lied to you! He was going to betray your trust the whole time!" Therion insists. "He's a liar and a traitor!"  
  
Miguel chuckles. "Ah, maybe so! But you know, I don't care. That's all that matters at the end of the day, friends, is taking what you want. The higher-ups take from us, so why _shouldn't_ we take right back? And when I've taken all I can, then I'll embrace my death. But I'll die knowing that my name's on their lips!"  
  
"You're fuckin' crazy," Therion growls. He grits his teeth and looks back to Alfyn. "He _deserves_ to die," he says. "But you wouldn't have believed us if we'd told you that. You would've said no."  
  
"Yeah, no shit, I would've said no to _murdering_ someone!" Alfyn snaps.   
  
"Alfyn, _please_ , you have to trust me," Primrose pleads. "We were trying to protect you—"  
  
"Oh, _trust_ you?" Alfyn repeats, turning on Primrose. "That's rich, coming from _you!_ You said yourself that you _wished_ you could trust like I do, that I didn't do anything _wrong_ , trusting Hysel back in Goldshore! You kept telling me your heart's cold and hard, it _can't_ trust, that I've gotta keep mine open or— or I'll end up like _you_."  
  
Alfyn swallows. "Well, maybe you're right," he says. "Maybe you really _can't_ trust. Because, clearly, you don't trust me!"   
  
It's harsh and everyone knows it. Therion puts a hand up. "Hey, that's a little—"  
  
"I don't want to hear it," Alfyn says. "I don't want to hear any bullshit about _trusting_ from _either_ of you, not if you can't at least trust me to fix my _own_ mistakes."  
  
"Ogen was right," Alfyn decides. "He was right all along. Some lives _aren't_ worth saving."  
  
Primrose feels all the air leave her lungs. She sees dead doves and snake bites and sticky black tar pulling at her clothes, dragging her down where all the rest of the murderers go. She feels the pain and the sickness and she sees, right in front of her eyes, Alfyn turn away and pick up his axe.  
  
It's Cyrus, of all people, who breaks the tension. He coughs, straightens his collar, and picks up his staff. "Well, this was fascinating," he says, walking towards Miguel. "But I trust you'll all understand what it means when I, of all people, say that we've done enough talking."  
  
A split second passes for the rest of the team to process it. Then Cyrus slams his staff into Miguel's face and all hell breaks loose.  
  
Miguel howls. The knife slashes something, something— the boy screams, Ophilia catches him, slavers burst from the trees. Alfyn is beside her and then he isn't and then Therion is there and then he isn't and then there's a hand on her neck and her knife in the hand and it passes in flashes, in snapshots, and Primrose can't help but think of Helgenish on the cliff and the blood on Yusufa's lips and her ashes mingling with the desert sand.  
  
Alfyn's boot is on Miguel's throat. Miguel sputters blood, pooling hot and sticky around him on the forest floor. He coughs, and the stupid smug grin still hasn't left his face.  
  
"You'll remember me," he gurgles. "You'll remember me as the man that made you stop trusting."  
  
Alfyn shakes his head. "Man, shut the fuck up."   
  
His axe comes down. Miguel is dead, and there are no more of his friends coming from the trees, and everything is unbearably quiet.  
  
Alfyn doesn't look at her. He crouches in front of Ophilia and the boy. He's breathing, clinging to Ophilia with white knuckles. Her hands are sticky with his blood but there's no more blood coming, and she's murmuring gentle things, his face buried in Ophilia's vestments— pure white stained with red.   
  
"How is he?" Alfyn asks. His voice is hoarse.   
  
Ophilia bites her lip. "He's stable for now," she says. "But that's not going to mean much if we don't get him back to a safe place so we can fix up the damage for real."   
  
"Then let's go," Alfyn says. "No time to waste."   
  
Ophilia shifts the boy into Alfyn's arms. The boy mumbles groggily, his face pale and sweaty. For a split second, Alfyn meets her eyes, and she opens her mouth. She's not sure what she's planning to say. But it doesn't matter, because he goes back the way they came, leaving Primrose rooted to the spot, watching his back turn away from her, just like in her dream.

She is the one person he could ever meet that does not deserve his care, just like in her dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i guess now that this chapter is done i can't keep procrastinating writing that zine piece i'm supposed to be doing huh


	5. I Feel My Head Begin to Spin

The path winds through the canyons, up steep cliffs and over bridges spanning deep gorges. Rocks in shades of red and orange and brown stack up in lines in the land, showing where the earth moves. The bridges sway and creak in the wind through the cliffs. It's hot and dry, the sun beating down from a cloudless blue sky, the air rippling with the heat, the rocks glistening with illusory puddles in the distance. The more well-traveled paths have established campsites with places to find shade and water and maybe stock up on some essential supplies like lantern oil and rations. The further inland one gets, though, the deeper the canyons are, and the hotter the sun burns, and the more dangerous travel gets. But Orewell needs to stay connected to the rest of the world somehow, and so the campsites stay open.   
  
Alfyn refills his water jug at a pump in a campsite just a half-hour's walk from Orewell's city limits. A half-hour's walk isn't much, but Alfyn's no fool— it'll take him more than that to find his way to the inn, get himself settled, and then go in search of food, and going without water for too long in this heat is courting death. Alfyn would rather not risk it.  
  
He wipes the sweat from his brow, squinting in the sunlight. The tin roofs of Orewell's buildings are blinding. What he wouldn't give to be back in the Riverlands— a swim sounds like just the ticket right about now.   
  
But then again, he remembers, perhaps he's not ready to go back towards Saintsbridge. Not yet.   
  
"Excuse me," says a man behind him in the line for the pump. "Are you finished with the pump?"  
  
Alfyn coughs. "Oh, uh, sorry," he says, stepping aside. It takes a second for him to connect the man's face with his name. "Hey, Ogen, isn't it? We met in Saintsbridge?"  
  
Ogen smiles in recollection. "Indeed we did." He takes a look at Alfyn and seems to assess his entire state of being in about two and a half seconds. "You seem a bit out of sorts, son. Is something bothering you?"  
  
Alfyn scratches the back of his neck. "Yeah, some stuff," he admits. "That obvious?"  
  
"It's written all over your face," Ogen says. "Come, you can tell me about it over a pint at the tavern. It's for your health."  
  
Alfyn cracks a smile. "Thanks, doc. Gods, where do I even start?"  
  


* * *

  
  
Dusk falls over the desert on the outskirts of Wellspring, where the sand and rock give way to the fertile tributaries and irrigation trenches cross-hatching the fields. The dirt road winds around the fields and over low log bridges, built up to keep convoy wagons and travelers' boots out of the mud that runs in ditches along the sides. The landscape's low hills are dotted with little clay houses either standing alone or clustered in little outskirt villages. Wellspring itself is sprawling and cluttered, its buildings flocking around the center oasis like seagulls crowding around a stale hunk of bread tossed their way. Like many Sunlands towns, the buildings are squarish and made of sandstone and clay, with the construction beams visible as pegs sticking out from between the floors. The layout is chaotic and illogical, a multi-level maze of stairs, bridges, catwalks, and alleyways. Banners and silks and gauzy fabrics drape across the larger streets and sway gently in the breeze to keep the sun off the heads of those who walk below.  
  
Compared to Sunshade, Wellspring is a sprawling metropolis, but Primrose gets the same feeling in its winding streets as she did in younger times, when Sunshade was new and unknown, and when Yusufa taught her how to shimmy through tight spots into secret places, how to climb the fences without making a sound, how to sprint around the corners and vault over the stacks of junk in the alleyways. She’s had a lot of practice, Yusufa had told Primrose, in running from things, and she thinks it’s a useful skill to have. Primrose remembers long days running just for the fun of it, watching Yusufa two paces ahead of her as she climbed over a chain fence and leapt over a narrow gap between buildings like it was nothing. At first, Primrose could hardly keep up— a year on the road was one thing, but a noble upbringing did not lend itself to amateur free-running— but they took breaks sitting on rooftops and stacks of supplies piled in the back streets, and gradually, Primrose found herself running for longer, and running faster, until she could keep pace with Yusufa and barely lose sight of her even in the most cluttered of paths. And then they'd find one of Yusufa's secret hideaways, spots up high where you could only get there by climbing, and watch the desert clouds go by with their fingers laced and their heads resting against each other.  
  
"This is such a lovely city," Ophilia says, knocking Primrose from her thoughts. Her eyes are glittering as she looks at the buildings. "You know, I don't think I'll ever get over being in big cities, no matter how many we've visited."  
  
"Live in one for a while and you'll change your mind," Therion replies. "It's different when you're not a tourist."  
  
Ophilia ignores him. "Maybe we should find a city map somewhere," she suggests. "To find an inn. Unless— Primrose, you lived in the Sunlands, right? Have you been here before?"  
  
"No," Primrose says shortly.   
  
"Oh," Ophilia replies, her voice small.   
  
"Sunshade was much smaller," Cyrus adds. "As notable as Sunshade is and even with the shared biome the two cities occupy, I can only imagine there are a great many differences. Did you know that Wellspring exports the greatest quantity of fish of any non-Coastlands city, even more than Riverford?"  
  
Ophilia gasps. "Oh! I didn't! Professor, that's fascinating!"  
  
"Yeah, a real ripper of a fun fact," Therion drawls.   
  
Cyrus scratches his cheek, looking mildly put out. "Well, _I_ thought it was interesting."  
  
"Don't listen to mean old Therion," Ophilia tells him. " _I_ think your fun facts are _wonderful_."  
  
"C'mon, it's a city," Tressa snorts. "There's inns all over the place. We could each stay in a different inn if we wanted and still be on the same block."  
  
"Perhaps I could inquire at a local tavern," Cyrus suggests. "Surely _someone_ has a reccommendation."  
  
Tressa raises an eyebrow. "Will that work?"  
  
"It worked when Alfyn did it," Cyrus shrugs. "I fail to see why it wouldn't."  
  
Primrose feels a twinge of guilt. Alfyn didn't look like he was angry when he insisted on going to Orewell alone— to clear his head, he said— but Primrose has spent the past ten years of her life needing to know how to read people to survive, and she can tell that, even if he isn't angry, it's worse— he's disappointed.  
  
"You need not go to such troubles, friends," H'aanit speaks up. She hands Tressa a pair of keys with little tags stamped with numbers. "Two rooms. That inn. Thou art welcome."  
  
Tressa looks at the keys and then looks at H'aanit. "So you just… went and got this?"  
  
"Aye."  
  
"Without saying anything."  
  
"Aye."  
  
"Without discussing it with any of us?"  
  
"You weren not going to agree any time soon," H'aanit says frankly. "If one of us did not maketh a decision, we wouldst be walking around this block for a fortnight."   
  
Tressa shrugs. "Fair enough."  
  
The windows are set high in the wall and covered with a gauzy shade that lets in some light while keeping out the heat, which is a common thing in the Sunlands. The beds are low cots with a stretchy fabric tied to the frame in place of a box spring, the mattresses thin but firm and the blankets light. They're probably big enough for two relatively small people to fit, but it'd be tight— standard fare for inns.   
  
H'aanit got two rooms, and Olberic, Cyrus, and Therion claim one and give the other key to Primrose. Primrose doesn't know how Olberic learned that it's difficult for her to relax around men regardless of their actual character, but she appreciates it anyway. Tressa takes a look at the room, sighs, and starts rolling out her bedroll on the floor.  
  
"Nothing gold can stay," she laments. "I miss mattresses."   
  
"Oh, no, Tressa, we can always share!" Ophilia offers, her smile genuine and adorable, as are most things she does. "It worked out wonderfully in Goldshore!"  
  
Tressa grimaces and coughs to cover it up. "No, no, really, this is for the best," she insists. "I, uh, snore. Horribly. Right in your ear."  
  
Ophilia frowns. "But I've slept next to you for the better part of a year now and I've never once heard you snore. Especially not in Goldshore."  
  
"Allergens," Tressa bullshits. "I'm just allergic to the pollen and stuff in other states. The sea air clears my sinuses right up, though. Don't know how it works, but, hey, we play the cards we're dealt."   
  
Ophilia looks suspicious, but accepts this, setting her bag at the foot of her bed and her wide-brimmed hat, purchased at a border town for the trip into the desert, on top of it. "Well, okay, if you say so."   
  
"Worry not, Tressa," H'aanit says, leaning on the door frame. "Linde and I shalt joineth thee on the floor tonight. Thou shalt have company."  
  
"I mean, I appreciate it and all," Tressa admits, sitting cross-legged on top of her bedroll. "But you're leaving for Marsalim tomorrow, right?"  
  
"I expecteth so," H'aanit says.   
  
Tressa sighs. "It's not the _same_ , then."   
  
"Oh, I'd forgotten about that," Ophilia remembers. "You're going to fight the… that beast. Are you sure you'll be alright alone?"  
  
"'Tis a task I must undertaketh alone," H'aanit admits. "Were it another beast, I wouldst be glad for your company, friends. But Redeye is no mere beast. To hunteth it and besteth it, 'twill take a hunter, not a hunting party."   
  
"We'd only slow you down, is what you're saying," Primrose sums up.   
  
H'aanit shrugs. "'Tis not how I would sayeth it, but I suppose. Prithee, rest assured," she adds, nodding to Ophilia. "Linde and I greatly appreciate the thought."  
  
Ophilia curls her hands in the skirt of her habit. "Well, I trust you," she says. "But I just… first Alfyn goes off on his own, and now you? I'm worried we're falling apart."  
  
"Yeah, but H'aanit's coming back after she beats Redeye," Tressa points out. "And so's Alfyn, you know, eventually."  
  
Primrose shifts on top of the cot. The chill of dusk is settling in, or maybe it's just the cold in Primrose's bones. It sticks in her head that Ophilia's mentioned the better part of the year— that it was the fall when Primrose left Sunshade, and it's getting on towards fall once more. It's been a year since the cliff and Helgenish and Yusufa and Primrose still feels cold. Maybe it's worse now that she knows Alfyn left because of her (and no matter what he says, she _knows_ it's because of her).   
  
"I'm going to take a walk," Primrose announces, tossing her bag onto the cot. "Don't wait for me for dinner."   
  
"Oh, please be careful," Ophilia calls after her.   
  
"Sure," Primrose lies. She shuts the door tight and doesn't look back.  
  


* * *

  
  
"I just still don't know if I did the right thing," Alfyn sighs, swirling the ale in his mug. He's chugged most of it, but there's still a layer in the bottom, and the sides are covered in foam. "With Miguel, that is. And some lives not being worth saving."  
  
Ogen hums. "I would still say that some are not," he says. "And I do think you would agree."  
  
"Well, yeah, I guess," Alfyn admits. "I mean, my friend Primrose— she's been with me since the beginning, and she's fought some really awful people. Murderers and rapists and shit. None of _them_ deserved to live. I wouldn't think so for a second."  
  
"Miguel was a slaver," Ogen says. "Is he any different?"  
  
"I… _guess_ not," Alfyn mumbles. "But like— Ogen, I thought I knew him. I thought we were friends."  
  
"So, you think that anyone you befriend couldn't possibly be a bad person?" Ogen asks.   
  
Alfyn groans. "Aw, man, this is giving me a headache. Why can't people just… _not_ be assholes?"  
  
Ogen chuckles. "If I find the answer to that, I'll let you know."  
  


* * *

  
  
Night's fallen over Wellspring. The city is lit with a million different tiny lanterns, making the whole place look like a sky full of stars. Primrose is just another one of a thousand people in its streets. She's thankful for the anonymity— sometimes it's good to feel alone, just a little.  
  
Her head feels like it's full of stuffing. Primrose doesn't like to drink, but she caves to her impulses and buys a bottle of mead from a seller anyway, figuring that if it doesn't help her clear her head it'll at least help her forget about it. The streets are quieter at night, but still active. Guards on the night shift patrol walk the streets, standing on assigned corners and yawning, leaning on their lances for support. Day workers stumble home from the taverns leaning on each other and slurring out tavern songs. Shady figures lurk in the alleyways. Whores in silky clothing and clattering jewelry loiter on stairs and trade cheap booze and gossip with each other when they happen to meet. Primrose sees them glance her way when she walks by— they recognize one of their own, even when she's in a blouse and skirt instead of a skimpy costume. There's a solidarity there even if Primrose is one of the lucky ones who made it out.  
  
There's a condemned building a few blocks from the inn. It's in a run-down neighborhood in a sketchy part of town, where drunk guys bunch up in alleyways and thieves linger by 'beware of pickpockets' signs. Primrose fits right in. She looks at the wire fence. It clatters when she puts her fingers through the rings. The building is half-constructed, the scaffolding covered with canvas tarps and the beams still stacked up on the ground. The sign hung on the locked gate says _Coming soon! Earl's General Goods: West Branch._  
  
Primrose looks at the tall fence, then at the scaffolding. She shrugs, cracks her knuckles, stuffs the bottle of mead into her bodice, and starts climbing.  
  


* * *

  
  
"I won't condemn you for trusting Miguel," Ogen says. "You're young, idealistic, trusting. That isn't necessarily a flaw."  
  
"Yeah?" Alfyn chuckles humorlessly. "Seems like it. I trusted Miguel and look where that got me. I trusted this other apothecary, Vanessa Hysel, and that didn't turn out so great, either." His smile, however wry, fades. "I trusted Primrose and Therion. I still do, I just—"   
  
He shakes his head and takes another swig of ale. "Man, maybe they were right all along. Maybe I'm just some dumb kid who doesn't know what's good for him, after all."  
  
Ogen swirls the ale in his tankard. "Perhaps," he says. "But I think that's how we all started."   
  
"Yeah, sure, but," Alfyn replies. "What's it matter now? If I'd just believed you and let Miguel die, then that kid wouldn't have gotten kidnapped. If I'd believed Primrose when she thought something was up with Hysel, maybe all those folks wouldn't have gotten so sick."   
  
"I think you're being too harsh on yourself," Ogen tells him. "You couldn't have known any of that would happen. You did what you thought was right, and when it turned out it wasn't, you tried to fix it. And so did they, albeit with a different method. It seems to me your friends care about you a great deal, Alfyn."  
  
Alfyn snorts into his ale. "Yeah, well," he says bitterly. "Not anymore, prolly, now that I stormed off. Especially Primrose. I didn't need to say any of that shit to her. I'll bet she hates me."  
  
He slumps onto the sticky bar counter and groans. "Well, ain't this a fuckin' crap sandwich," he says. "I'm a shitty apothecary and a shittier friend."   
  
Ogen hums. He pulls Alfyn's mug of ale away and pushes a cup of water into where it was. "I don't think that's the case, but," he says. "Tell me more about why you think you're such a shitty friend."  
  


* * *

  
  
Primrose's legs dangle off the edge of the building. She's only two stories up, but the elevation of the neighborhood makes it so she has a decent view of the city and the stars above. They're always brilliant in the desert, where there's no soil and grass to keep in heat. Even in the summer, the nights can get chilly. Primrose doesn't know if she feels cold because of the night or because that's just how she is, now that Yusufa is gone.   
  
Her absence aches worse looking at the dunes. Yusufa would've loved Wellspring— the narrow streets, the nooks and crannies, the secrets to discover. She would've loved Noblecourt, too. And Primrose would've loved to show it to her, but that's not how it happened, and Primrose has to live with that blood on her hands just like the others she's killed.  
  
She pops the cork on the bottle of mead, bouncing her heel against the sandstone structure. Cheap, shitty alcohol fumes waft up from the bottle. Primrose grimaces. She's no stranger to bad booze, but she can't say she likes it much. Really, she doesn't even drink— she doesn't like the idea of not being fully cognizant of where she is and what's happening. Why did she buy this. Now she has a bottle of mead she's never going to drink. Nice going, Azelhart.  
  
She groans and gives up, plunking the bottle down next to her and stuffing the cork back in. Maybe she'll give it to Olberic or something.   
  
It's easy to spot H'aanit from the roof of the building, given that very few Wellspring residents, in all likelihood, walk with a snow leopard. She spots Primrose from street level. Primrose gives her an irreverent wave.  
  
"Prithee," H'aanit calls from the other side of the fence. "Why must thou choosen a condemned building to climbeth to brood?"  
  
"I think part of the point of brooding is not wanting anyone to bother you," Primrose calls back.  
  
"Ah." H'aanit pauses. "Ought I leaveth thou to it?"  
  
Primrose shrugs. "Do what you want. I'm not your keeper."  
  
"Then I believeth I shall join thee," H'aanit decides. She frowns at the fence, looks at its height, then grabs the rings and rips at the fencing like it's fabric until she's torn a hole big enough to climb through. (Primrose isn't going to lie, it's kind of really hot.)  
  
H'aanit's not particularly adept at climbing buildings, but she manages. Primrose doesn't look at her when she comes to sit on the edge, nor when she glances over to the still-full mead bottle.  
  
"Thou doth not drink," she notices.  
  
"Oh, I know," Primrose grumbles. "I bought it on impulse. This kind of brooding feels like the kind of thing one does while trying to drown their sorrows."  
  
H'aanit shrugs. "Aye, fair."  
  
Primrose kicks her heels against the side of the building. Her walking boots have a strong heel that bounces when it hits the stone, which is a blessing— had she tried to do the same in her sandals, she'd end up with bruised heels. Really, the sandals aren't much better than being barefoot, for all the support and protection they provide.   
  
Linde purrs behind her, pushing her head into Primrose's lap. Primrose cracks a smile and scratches behind her ears.  
  
"Hey, big girl," she coos. Linde purrs happily.  
  
H'aanit chuckles. "Methinks Linde hath taken a liking to thee," she says.   
  
"I've always liked cats," Primrose shrugs. "I suppose Linde is just a very big housecat."  
  
"Aye, Master Z'aanta always did spoilen her like one," H'aanit snorts. "But I suppose there be not much difference betwixt the two."  
  
"I suppose not," Primrose says.  
  
H'aanit hums. She's quiet for a while. She picks up the mead, inspects it, and makes a face. She sets it aside with mild disgust. H'aanit doesn't drink, either, but Primrose figures that even if she did, she wouldn't drink the swill that Primrose bought.  
  
Primrose leans back on her hands, looking at the desert sky. "I don't think I was meant for this adventuring business," she muses. "I think I should've just stayed at home and worked through my grief by taking up stamp collecting like normal girls do."  
  
H'aanit nods. "Perhaps," she says. "But thou art here. It matteren not what thou believest thou ought have done instead. 'Tis no sense in wasting thy time pondering upon what could have been, had thou made another choice."  
  
Primrose goes quiet. H'aanit is right— H'aanit is usually right— but that doesn't mean Primrose has to like it.   
  
"Sometimes I wonder why the seven of you even put up with me," Primrose mumbles.  
  
H'aanit shrugs. "'Tis safety in numbers, and, really, once one hath fought enough beasts with a party, there formeth a bond. Thou hast no choice but to trust thine party to watch thine back, and such a thing forgeth a friendship difficult to shake."  
  
"I suppose that's one answer for it," Primrose admits.   
  
"Thou art a most valuable and wanted addition to the team, Primrose," H'aanit says. "And forged by battle or no, thou hast seven new friends on thy side. Thou needn't say that which thy doth not wish me to hear, but prithee, know that thou may speakest if it will help thou to heal, and I will listen."   
  
"I cannot expect you to carry my burdens, H'aanit," Primrose tells her.  
  
"Mayhap not, but permitteth me to try," H'aanit replies.  
  
Primrose smiles wryly at her, then looks back down to the city. She sighs like being awake is exhausting, pushing her bangs back from her face. Her face feels sticky and heavy, and she wishes she'd taken the time to wash off her makeup before leaving the inn.   
  
"It's a lot of little things, I suppose," Primrose admits. "Alfyn's off on his own. You're going off on your own to slay the Redeye tomorrow. And besides that, we're splitting the party again because Therion and Olberic both have business in two different parts of town and they'll need backup. Plus, I hate sand." She sneers halfheartedly at the dunes fading into the distance behind the city. "Nothing good ever came out of this fucking desert. I don't care _what_ Cyrus says about fish exports."  
  
H'aanit nods. "Bad memories."   
  
"Aye," Primrose mutters.   
  
"'Twill be less sandy indoors," H'aanit says. "Methinks we ought return to the inn."   
  
Primrose nods. "Lead the way."  
  
H'aanit peers over the side of the building. She hesitates. "Ah," she says. "Mayhap thou should leadeth instead. Cats and trees, and such."  
  
At that, Primrose barks out a laugh. "Alright, I'll lead. You know it's only two stories, right? You're not going to get _that_ badly hurt if you fall."   
  
"Thou hast a level of trust in thine body that maketh me worry."  
  
"You know what? That's fair."

* * *

  
  
"Let's look at it this way," Ogen says. "You abide by the oath that all who wish to heal have to take— that we have a responsibility to treat everyone who needs our help, our personal beliefs aside."  
  
Alfyn frowns. "Yeah, shouldn't everyone?"  
  
"In a perfect world," Ogen muses. "I would agree with you. In a world where all people are good, even if they sometimes do things that are, on the whole, morally agreed-upon as bad, then I could justify to myself treating everyone without judgement or restriction."   
  
"So how do you judge who's bad and who isn't?" Alfyn asks. "I mean, clearly some folks out there are real good liars. Maybe— maybe I've _already_ treated folks who do even worse crap than Miguel did. How do you know some sick person you treat isn't gonna go back to their day job of holding up traveling caravans and killin' anyone who fights back?"  
  
"How do you?"   
  


* * *

  
  
The desert night is cool, but even the thin summer blanket on the low inn bed feels suffocatingly hot. Primrose's rest is light and uneasy, and she wakes with the blanket twisted around her and her brow covered in sweat enough that she gives up, bunches up the blanket, and tosses it off the bed. She's very tired of not being able to sleep. Her saving grace is that Tressa and Ophilia are heavy sleepers, and the last thing Primrose wants to have to do this late and this soon after unwanted dreams is to have anyone know about them.  
  
She breathes and feels for her dagger. It's tucked just under the pillow, like always— close at hand, just in case she needs it. In the darkness, she runs her hands over the sheath's well-worn blue leather, the tarnished brass trim, the pommel forged in the shape of a rose. She doesn't know when she started thinking of Azelhart less as her name and more of something constant to cling to when _kitten_ rang in her ears like the uneasy chorus of a song that makes her ill, but it's gotten her through many long and painful nights.   
  
H'aanit's lain her bedroll down next to Primrose's bed. Primrose sees her outlined in pale moonlight. Her eyes are closed and her face is relaxed, but there's the tiniest hint of the sternness Primrose sees in her waking hours. H'aanit is awake.   
  
"Did I wake you?" Primrose murmurs, turning onto her side and leaning close so she won't wake the others.   
  
H'aanit shakes her head. "Thou hast not been resting well."  
  
"It's just a few bad dreams," Primrose says. "Nothing more. Nothing I'm not used to."  
  
"Mm." H'aanit moves slowly, until she's sitting up. Linde snuffles in her sleep, but, being a cat, is otherwise undisturbed. "Would that I could hunten the beast in thy mind. Alas, I'm not that good a hunter."   
  
"It's sweet that you care, though," Primrose hums. She wipes the sweat from her face with the back of her hand and wipes her hand on the bedsheets.   
  
"I will keep watch," H'aanit says. "Rest."  
  
"You need your rest, too," Primrose says. "You're going to hunt the Redeye, remember?"  
  
H'aanit clicks her tongue. "Rest," she insists. "Prithee, think first of thyself, for once."  
  
Primrose puts her hands up and lies back down, looking at the sandstone ceiling. "Fine, fine," she says. "I just don't want you falling asleep on the hunt."  
  
"Thou truly doubtest me so?" Her tone is teasing, so Primrose huffs a quiet laugh.   
  
"I just don't want you getting hurt because you were up late worrying about me," she says. "Is that so wrong?"  
  
H'aanit hums. "I suppose not."  
  
The night is still again, save for quiet breathing and the beating of Primrose's heart. If H'aanit weren't sitting up, Primrose would almost think she were alseep.  
  
"What am I going to do without you, H'aanit?" she murmurs, half to herself.   
  
"I expecteth thou will manage," H'aanit says. "The world will not end. The sun will still riseth and setteth as it hast done scores of times. And I will returneth to thee when I hath slain the Redeye."  
  
"I'm holding you to that," Primrose says.   
  
It may be Primrose's imagination, but she thinks she sees H'aanit smile. "I would not dreameth of disappointing thee."   
  


* * *

  
  
The Cliftlands heat seeps into Alfyn's inn room. He sighs at the ceiling.   
  
"Man," he mutters. "I don't fuckin' know."  
  


  
  
H'aanit leaves for Marsalim in the morning, and after lunch, Ophilia and Cyrus go with Olberic to chase his lead. Primrose waits outside a tavern with Tressa, who's fiddling with some gadget— Primrose has seen her messing with it for quite some time, but she hasn't figured out what it is. And anyway, she hasn't asked, and Tressa hasn't said, so she's let it be, even if she's a little curious.   
  
Therion leaves the tavern and glances to both of them. "We're headed for a cave on the outskirts," he says. "By the way, don't try wine cut with ale and mead. It's disgusting."  
  
Tressa grimaces. "Why'd you even order that?"  
  
"Fuckin' criminals and their secret codes, that's why," Therion grumbles. "Come on, hurry up. I'm not gonna wait around."   
  
The Wellspring streets are bustling but not too crowded, which makes it easy to slip through without raising any eyebrows. It's not a long walk to the outskirts, so when the streets turn from stone paving to hard-packed dirt, Therion steps off the road and squints at a map that he'd probably pilfered from some unfortunate merchant.   
  
"'Course, it could be _any_ cave," he mutters. "Thanks a bunch, bartender."   
  
"Hmm, if I were a black market, where would I be?" Tressa wonders, peering at the map. "Oh, hey, that reminds me, I've got something to show you guys!"  
  
Primrose quirks an eyebrow. "Is it that gadget you've been playing with since Saintsbridge?"  
  
"Bingo!" Tressa says, presenting her gadget with a flourish. It's about the length of Primrose's forearm, and it's roughly forearm-shaped, clearly meant to be worn and held on with a pair of straps. But past that, Primrose couldn't even guess what it's meant to be.  
  
Therion raises an eyebrow. "Fuck's this thing?"  
  
"Hold out your arm," Tressa tells him. Therion does. Tressa puts the gauntlet on him. There's some clicking and scraping that sounds vaguely mechanical. Puzzled, Therion looks it over.   
  
"I repeat," he says. "The _fuck_ is this thing?"  
  
"Okay, okay, okay," Tressa says. She's practically vibrating with excitement. "Flick your wrist back. Like this." She demonstrates.   
  
Therion does so. A knife shoots out from the wrist of the gauntlet, about four inches long and lethally sharp. Therion's eye widens, and he whistles appreciatively.  
  
Tressa bounces from one foot to the other. "Cyrus and I found the plans for this thing in some old book in Duskbarrow," she says. "So I helped him get the parts and figure out how they all fit together and now it's finished!"   
  
" _That_ was why I saw all those bandages on Cyrus's fingers," Primrose realizes. "You were testing this thing!"  
  
"Yeah, he kind-of-almost-nearly took his ring finger off more than a few times," Tressa admits. "But he didn't! And now it's yours, Therion! I figure it's a very _you_ kind of gadget. Oh, and if you flick your wrist again, it'll slide back in. There's a clasp and a notch and some stuff like that, I stopped paying attention when Cyrus started talking about sprockets and countersinks. It just looks like a regular bracer when the knife isn't out, and I mean, you have to get real close to use it anyway, so."   
  
Therion flicks his wrist again. The blade slides back in with a click. Therion chuckles. "Yeah, okay, I can get used to this. Nice job, pipsqueak."  
  
Tressa preens. "I'll ignore the pipsqueak comment this time. But yeah, I figure you could make good use of it. But, uh, try to keep your fingers out of the way when you bring the blade out. It's _really_ sharp and _really_ fast."  
  
"Yeah, no shit," Therion snorts. But there are no barbs in his words, and it's obvious he's extremely taken with his new toy, flicking it in and out and jabbing with it a few times like a kid swinging around a stick and pretending it's a sword, except for the fact that he's a grown man and it's a real knife.   
  
"I think he likes it," Primrose says.   
  
"I'd sure hope so," Tressa mutters. "Cyrus bled for that knife. Literally! You know, the notes in Duskbarrow said something about the blade requiring sacrifice, but who knows _how_ true that junk is."  
  
Satisfied, Therion retracts the knife and cracks his knuckles. "Alright," he decides. "Let's find that cave."   
  
The cave is one of the smaller caves, further off the beaten path, as one might expect of a black market, but it's remarkably easy to find, once Tressa notices more than a few rich people without carriages heading the same direction. _Listen, I know merchants_ , she says. _And if a merchant's got really valuable goods, he's not gonna sell 'em to any old sap in the marketplace_.   
  
It's a good hunch, and it leads them to a small, craggy cave in a rocky gully with a battered sand road leading down to the entrance. Crates and barrels are stacked near the entrance. And, of course, everyone's wearing a mask— white for the guests, black for the staff.   
  
"Convenient," Therion mumbles. "Too bad I left my mask in my other pants."  
  
"Let's forge some," Tressa suggests. "Can't be that hard, right?"  
  
"Too risky," Therion says. "We'll have to be sneakier than that."   
  
"So, stealing," Primrose guesses.  
  
Therion shrugs. "Methods may vary, but, yeah."  
  
"I've picked a few pockets in my day," Primrose says. "Let's split up, each try to steal one mask, and meet back here in another hour."  
  
An hour later, Primrose goes back empty-handed. If Tressa's expression is any indication, she didn't have much better luck.  
  
"I don't believe it," Tressa huffs. "I met a guy willing to sell me a mask, but his supply got pilfered, like, a _minute_ before I got there!"   
  
"I met a guy with some extra masks who _seemed_ like an easy mark, but once I pulled my shirt down, he found out he didn't have any," Primrose says. "Can you believe that?"   
  
Therion snickers. "I can. And here's why." He pulls out three masks from behind his back with a shit-eating grin.   
  
Tressa glares at him. "You sneaky bastard."  
  
"Guilty."   
  
He tosses them each a white mask. Primrose slips it on. It's got decent visibility for something that covers half of her face.   
  
"Fantastic," Therion decides. "We'll fit in nicely."  
  
"We? I don't know who you people are!" Tressa gasps. "Oh dear, where did my friends go?"  
  
"Come on, jokers, we're wasting daylight," Primrose says. "That rock isn't gonna find itself."  
  
The black market is, really, just like any other market, except it's underground, and the things for sale should probably be in museums or illegal altogether. Primrose spots goods from all corners of the continent, from automatic crossbows and books of curses to glittering jewelry and mysterious potions claiming to have fantastic properties. The sellers are confident and their patrons wealthy— Primrose would bet good money that at least half of the goods on display are fake. It's high-risk, high-reward swindling, the kind of stakes that could make or break one's reputation in the criminal underworld. If the rock Therion's looking for is being sold anywhere, it's here.   
  
"Any merchant worth their salt wouldn't just sell something like that," Tressa murmurs to Primrose and Therion. "I bet it'll be auctioned. When's the bidding start?"  
  
"Few minutes, from what I overheard," Therion says. "I'm gonna snag a spot. You two keep looking, just in case our seller is one of the stupid ones."   
  
He disappears into the crowd. Primrose thumbs through a spellbook on display at one of the stands. She can't read a word of it, but given all the illustrations of people getting killed in various nasty ways, she figures it's nothing she'd want to learn anyway.  
  
"Weird," Tressa mutters. "Every time I _think_ I know about magic, something new pops up. It's like math or something."  
  
"I'd think magic is more of an art than a science," Primrose replies, setting the book down and looking over the other covers with mild feigned interest. "But Cyrus would probably know better than I do."  
  
Tressa grimaces. "Yeah, probably. But if I ask him, he'll _never_ shut up."  
  
"Mm, fair point."  
  
There's an interesting array of illegal goods for sale, money changing hands along with the occasional note— _IOU three folding swords_ or _this coupon redeemable for one marble sculpture_. There are stacks of books that would make Cyrus faint on the spot. There's a table of potions claiming to be miracle cures for all that ails you, so pungent Primrose is almost certain they're poisons. She spots a painting in a fancy gilded frame leaning against a display with others of its kind— a depiction of some or other battle between gods that Primrose recognizes as one that used to hang in her father's study. Either the Azelhart manor's been looted (which wouldn't surprise her) or that painting was a fake the whole time.  
  
She hears Tressa gasp. She has her hands over her mouth, staring (presumably) wide-eyed at a table of weapons. They're all ridiculous in some way— pocket knives with a stupid amount of other attachments, swords with a second, smaller sword for a pommel, things encrusted with so much gold and jewels that Primrose is absolutely sure they'd break if one tried to use them in battle. The table even boasts a few rare firearms, the wood polished to a sheen. But Tressa's not looking at the firearms. She's staring at a heavy-looking crossbow made of fine-grain yew and gleaming steel. It's in perfect shape, without a single ding or hint of wear, and probably hasn't ever been fired in its life.   
  
"It's beautiful," she whispers. "Oh my gods. Have you ever _seen_ a more magnificent crossbow?"  
  
"I… haven't seen very many crossbows in general," Primrose has to admit.  
  
"I need it," Tressa decides. "I need this crossbow."  
  
"It looks like it weighs as much as you do," Primrose remarks. "Can you even _use_ a crossbow?"  
  
"I can use a bow, it can't be _that_ different," Tressa shrugs. "And if it is, I can learn. Hey, mister, I'll take the crossbow."  
  
The weapons merchant arcs an eyebrow. "Very well, then." He gestures for her to lean in and tells her the price. The grimace on Tressa's face tells Primrose all she needs to know.  
  
She coughs. "You know what, my good man," she decides. "I think, uh, money isn't enough for this magnificent work of art. What would you say if I offered to trade?"  
  
"You'd have to have something awfully valuable in exchange for _this_ crossbow," the weapons merchant says. "But I'll bite."  
  
"Oh, you won't regret a thing," Tressa promises. "So what I have here with me is this absolutely _beautiful_ kind of gem I've taken to calling a Skystone…"  
  
While Tressa tries to swindle the swindler, Primrose looks at the next stall over. Someone's selling goods from Sunshade—racks of silky dancer costumes, but also some jewelry, ornamental blades, and other trinkets that look pretty but not especially valuable. After living in Sunshade for nine years (nine years too many, as far as Primrose is concerned), it's nothing particularly eye-catching, even it does all _seem_ to be genuine.   
  
Primrose's breath halts in her chest. There is something on the table that should not be there.  
  
With trembling hands, Primrose picks up one of the trinkets on the table. It's a set of bracelets made of gold, but obviously secondhand, worn to the curve of someone else's wrist, bearing the nicks and little dents of a long life with a previous owner. And on the inside, a name, scratched into the metal with the end of a pin.   
  
Primrose knows that name.  
  
Primrose taught its owner to _write_ that name.  
  
Before she knows what she's doing, she snatches the bracelets up in her hand, quick enough that it gets the merchant's attention.  
  
The merchant frowns. "Hey! You have to buy those!"  
  
"They weren't yours to sell in the first place," Primrose growls. She recognizes the merchant. Her face is hidden beneath a black mask, but she recognizes the voice and she can put a name to it. "Where did you get these? Did you even think of who they belonged to before?"  
  
Aseela sneers. "Yeah, another dead whore, like any of the rest of us could've been."  
  
"Yusufa was more than that," Primrose says. "She was more than you could ever hope to be and you know it. And she still is."  
  
"Take the stupid bangles, then, if they mean that much to you," Aseela scoffs. "So while _you're_ out here crying about some little street rat, _I'll_ be taking care of the shit Helgenish dropped when you offed him— you know, like _you_ didn't. Because you _left_."  
  
Primrose grits her teeth. "Yusufa was the one good thing that ever came out of Sunshade," she says. "You didn't _deserve_ her. After all you and the rest of Sunshade put her through, I don't give a _shit_ what happens to it."  
  
"Then keep her," Aseela retorts. "Here, I'll give 'em to you for free. I don't want your fuckin' money anyway."   
  
She shoves the bracelets into Primrose's chest. Primrose wants to shout at her, to call her out for everything Yusufa went through at her hands, but her jaw won't move and her heart keeps beating and then there's Tressa's hand near hers and she pulls away, reflexively, but it's enough to snap her out of it.  
  
"C'mon, let's head back for the auction area," Tressa suggests gently. "They've probably started the bidding."  
  
Primrose coughs. "Right, yes," she agrees, following Tressa back into the crowd. "Did you get the crossbow?"  
  
Tressa grins and hefts it up onto her shoulder. "How good am I?"  
  
"You're going to have a hell of a time trying to figure out how to wield that thing in battle," Primrose tells her. "Considering none of us know how to—"  
  
A strangled scream cuts through the air, mixed with shouting that's soon drowned out in the commotion of a hundred nobles and merchants all trying to get away from whatever had caused said stream. Primrose hears shouts of bandits and thieves, and knows something has gone very, very wrong.  
  
She and Tressa move to a calmer area, relatively speaking. Therion vaults down from where they were holding the auctions and pushes his mask up onto his forehead. "We have a situation," he says breathlessly.  
  
"No fooling!" Tressa replies.   
  
Primrose cracks her neck. "Let's go."   
  
They chase the bandits through the winding cavern pathways, guided less by the shaking lamp light and more by the sound of the bandits ahead of them. Their particular path ends in an open room, which Primrose learns because Tressa trips into it, scrabbles to save her crossbow, and ends up on her face with the crossbow held above her head.   
  
"Now to hand this in to the—" one of the four thieves is saying. He cuts off abruptly when Tressa hits the dirt. The four of them grab their weapons.   
  
"No need to rush on my account, gentlemen," Therion says, sauntering up to the bandits like they're old friends. "But I'll save you some time anyway. I'm gonna need that stone you have. It's my emotional support rock and I'd very much like it back."  
  
One of the thieves lowers his axe. "Aw, sorry, mate, didn't realize," he says. "C'mon, Gareth, give 'im his emotional support rock back—"  
  
Another theif smacks him upside the head. "Darren! He's _lying_ , shit-for-brains! Don't fuckin' give him the rock!"  
  
Therion chuckles and puts his hands up. "Alright, I concede," he says. "It's not my emotional support rock, but I really do need it back. Pretty please."  
  
Gareth, presumably the leader, looks at the rock and then at Therion. "No," he says.   
  
Therion shrugs. "Well, no one can say I didn't try asking nicely."  
  
A new voice, from another entrance to the cavern. "Well, well," it says, cocky and arrogant. "If it isn't Therion."  
  
Therion freezes. He coughs and speaks again. "Never thought I'd see _your_ sorry mug again," he says. "Least of all here. White-collar crime was never your style."  
  
"Likewise," the other man replies. Primrose doesn't recognize him. He's lanky, redheaded, wearing green, and looks like a skinny, mangy feral cat that someone had combed and collared and pretended was a show pet. His grin is mocking and the lackadaisical way he leans on the cavern wall is just as false as everything he says. Primrose has seen his type before— the slimy kind of man that stiffs dancers on their per-session rate. That would be enough for her to hate him, but seeing Therion freeze like that, seeing the tremor in his hands and the wildfire blazing behind his visible eye, makes this man the fourth name on her hit list. (And Therion cursing out redheads in general while they were chasing after Miguel suddenly makes much more sense.)  
  
"Who's _this_ clown?" Tressa whispers.   
  
The man gasps mockingly. "Aw, Therion, you haven't told your new mates about me? I'm hurt."  
  
"Yeah, well, that's kind of what happens when you fucking throw a guy to his death," Therion snaps. "But I apologize if I hurt your feelings by un-inviting you to my next birthday party, Darius."  
  
Darius chuckles and spreads his hands, slowly ambling over to the rest of the group and taking his place in the center of the four bandits. He's standing, but he acts like he's a king draped over a throne, looking down at the suffering peasants below.   
  
"Aw, _Therion_ ," he says. (Primrose sees Therion wince, just a tiny bit.) "Who needs a birthday party when we're all here now? I'd heard there was another tea leaf after that stone, but I'd never imagined it'd be you! Frankly, I'm amazed you're still kickin' around at all, let alone on both legs."  
  
"Ah, right," Therion says. "Well, the gods won't fuckin' let me die, so unfortunately for you, I'm still here, despite your best efforts." He nods to the bandits. "I see you found yourself some _new_ partners in crime."  
  
"I wouldn't call 'em partners," Darius shrugs. "They work for me, y'see. And how 'bout…" He glances from Therion to Tressa to Primrose and sneers. "Ah, I see. You nicked yourself a schoolgirl and a whore."   
  
"Fuck you, I graduated with honors!" Tressa protests.   
  
"So," Darius continues, ignoring Tressa and slowly stepping closer to Therion. Therion's hand clenches into a fist, white-knuckled and trembling. "How's life been without me? Exciting, I take it, from that pretty bracelet you've got. How long'd it take you to get nabbed, anyway? A month? A week?" He clicks his tongue. "Sloppy, mate."  
  
"Back off, Darius," Therion growls.  
  
"Must be why you're after that Dragonstone," Darius guesses. He moves in, very purposefully placing a hand on Therion's shoulder. His nails are long and jagged. Therion flinches. He leans in, looking mockingly sympathetic. "You really _are_ nothing without me."  
  
Therion says nothing. Darius clenches his hand around Therion's shoulder and shoves him, sending him stumbling back a few steps.  
  
"Stealing was the only thing you were ever good at," Darius scoffs. "It was the only reason _I_ kept you around, anyway. And you should be grateful for that!" He shoves Therion again. "You were a wretched little gutter rat until I found you! And that's how you woulda died, if _I_ hadn't come along and made you into who you are!"  
  
He grabs a fistful of Therion's shirt. "So, c'mon, _brother_ ," he sneers. "It's been a good six years since that day on the cliff, aye? What say we bury the hatchet?"  
  
Therion says nothing.  
  
"I can be a forgiving man," Darius says. "You apologize good enough, I'll take you back in. You know you'd be nothin' without me, Therion. And that cuff proves it."   
  
(It's Darius who says it, but Primrose doesn't hear his voice. She hears the entitled haughtiness that taught her to clench her teeth and fake a smile and play a role every day, all day, for nine years of her life. She feels the heat of his breath and the reek of his sweat and hears the sandstorm, swirling and howling, beyond the wired glass.)  
  
Therion takes a shaky breath in and out. He does it again. Again. Again.  
  
"No," he says. "Enough, Darius."   
  
Darius's smile turns into a scowl. "What'd you say?"  
  
"I said," Therion repeats. He grabs Darius's wrist and shoves him back. "Enough. Our partnership is _over_ , Darius. Nothing you can say will get me to trust you again."  
  
Darius steps back. He purses his lips and nods. "Alright," he says. "Alright, Therion, I get it. There's really no point in reminiscing. So, I suppose now I'll just have to finish what I started those years ago."   
  
The bandits move closer. Out of one ear, Primrose hears something— something like the sound of running footsteps. They get louder, and louder, until everyone is certain that someone is running towards them at full tilt. And then there's a blur of green and brown out of the side of Primrose's eye, and they slam Darius in the nose with a punch so hard it knocks him off his feet.  
  
"Man," Alfyn pants, wiping the blood off his hand. "Shut. The fuck. _Up_."  
  
"Alfyn!" Tressa crows. She runs over and slugs him in the shoulder. "Look at you, being the big damn hero! I thought you went to Orewell!"  
  
"Well, I did," Alfyn says. "But I, ah, I realized I couldn't stay. Then I heard some commotion over in this cave, and came to investigate, and heard _that_ motherfucker, so."   
  
He looks to Therion and grins. "I've got your back," he says.  
  
Therion blinks, then gives a quiet snort that turns into a chuckle. "You're really something, medicine man."   
  
Primrose's throat closes up. Alfyn looks to her, and his humble grin turns into something sorrowful. He swallows, scratching at the fuzz on his chin. "Hey," he says.   
  
"Hey," Primrose replies.  
  
"I'm sorry," they say at the same time.   
  
"You were right, I shouldn't have interfered with your apothecary business, even if I didn't trust Miguel," Primrose says.   
  
"Nah, nah, I shouldn't have taken his word over yours and Therion's," Alfyn says.   
  
"I shouldn't have acted like you were incapable of taking care of yourself," Primrose replies.   
  
"I shouldn't have said that stuff to you when I found out," Alfyn replies.   
  
Primrose bites the inside of her cheek. "Even if you were right?"  
  
"Aw, hey," Alfyn chides. "Listen, it isn't _all_ your fault. I know you didn't mean any harm. You wanted to help."  
  
"So— so you forgive me?" Primrose says.   
  
Alfyn gives her one of his big, boisterous grins, but there's warmth and gentleness in his eyes. "Of course I do," he says. "You forgive me?"  
  
He holds out his hand. An offer, not an order— his palm open, not holding any secrets.  
  
Primrose feels a weight lift off her chest. She reaches out and gives his hand a squeeze. "Of course I do."  
  
"Fuckin' _ow_ ," Darius groans, clutching his broken nose. "Sealctige's tits, man, what do they _feed_ you blokes in the Riverlands?"  
  
"Excuse you, but we're having a moment," Primrose says indignantly, pulling her hand away and folding her arms.   
  
"They're havin' a _moment_ ," Darren repeats. "We can't fight 'em, Jerry."  
  
"Gods, Darren, shut your fuckin' yap before I snap your jaw," Jerry says through his teeth.  
  
Darius is not amused. "Kill 'em already," he grumbles, getting to his feet and shaking off the daze. He unsheaths his dagger. "It's four against two."   
  
Alfyn looks around. "You sure, bud? I'm pretty sure it's five against four."   
  
" _Those_ two count as half each," Darius says, jabbing his chin at Primrose and Tressa. "As for you, _partner_ — you and me are gonna go one on one. For old times' sake."   
  
Therion shrugs. He flicks his wrist and the hidden knife slides out with a click. "Works for me. I've been waiting for this for a long time!"  
  
And so they leap into battle with the four bandits. It's three against four, no matter what Darius says, but even so, they're easy to dispose of with a few clever tricks and a lot of teamwork. Primrose has never smiled during a battle before, but she can't help herself— she feels something other than what she normally does. She feels strong. She feels in-control. She feels like there is something behind her to catch her if she falls.   
  
It's over when the last one falls and there are four bodies dead on the ground, while Primrose, Alfyn, and Tressa are still standing. Tressa swings her crossbow back up onto her shoulder and wipes the sweat off her forehead with the shoulder of her shirt.   
  
Alfyn whistles. "Nice crossbow," he says.   
  
Tressa beams. "Thanks! Isn't she lovely? Still don't know how to really use her, but I can learn."  
  
"Try not to shoot yourself by accident," Alfyn advises. "Point-blank crossbow wounds ain't pretty. Trust me, I know."  
  
Primrose winces. "That sounds awful."  
  
"It is," Alfyn agrees.   
  
Therion growls, pulling himself to his feet. The hidden knife's blade is dripping with blood, but Darius is nowhere to be found. Therion's battered but alive, and that's better than one could say about the bandits.  
  
"Bastard ran away," he mutters. "Couldn't face me like a fighter, so he ran away like a coward."  
  
"Still," Alfyn admits. "Looks like you got him at least a little bit, yeah?" He nods to the hidden knife.   
  
Therion holds it up. "I did," he admits. "But not enough to kill. I make a pretty fuckin' bad assassin, huh?"  
  
"I don't think you were cut out for it anyway," Primrose shrugs.  
  
Alfyn chuckles. "I missed y'all," he says. "I know I was only gone for a couple days, but I still did."  
  
Tressa bumps her knuckles against his arm. "We're glad you're back, too," she says. "Let's go find the others, and H'aanit should be back tonight. Then the band's all back together."   
  
"And you're gonna show off your new crossbow?"  
  
"You bet your sweet ass I am! I paid good money for this thing!"  
  
"Right, Tressa, how _much_ money?"  
  
"Oh, well, y'see, funny story…"   
  


* * *

  
  
Night's fallen over Wellspring once again before H'aanit returns. It's the witching hour, the darkest part of the night when most have gone to bed. The stars are bright, though, and they twinkle outside the window as Primrose, unable to sleep, watches the city night from the second-story window. Tressa and Ophilia are still sleeping blissfully, Ophilia curled up under the  coverlet and Tressa sprawled out on her bedroll.  
  
In her sleep, Tressa snuffles and mumbles something unintelligible. Primrose, from her spot over on the other bed, chuckles a little. She would say she misses being Tressa's age and able to sleep through anything like that, but she was far younger than Tressa when she had to ditch that ability in favor of constant vigilance, being ready to react at a moment's notice.   
  
Primrose sighs and lies back down. She rubs her thumb over the wear in Yusufa's bracelets. It's always soothed her before to have something concrete to hold onto. But this time it's no help— Alfyn may be back, and he may have forgiven her, and Primrose may have a physical memento of Yusufa where she didn't before, but when everything else is quiet, Primrose becomes aware of the cold in her bones and the cotton in her lungs.   
  
She hates the Sunlands.  
  
In the darkness, the lock to the room clicks open. Primrose stiffens reflexively, but makes herself lie still. She puts the bangles back under her pillow and pretends to be asleep.   
  
H'aanit and Linde move quietly, as hunters do, but Primrose knows their presences well enough to know that it's them, even if they hardly make a sound. H'aanit breathes to herself, sets her things down, and rolls out her bedroll beside Primrose's bed. Linde turns around twice and plops herself down with her head on the end of the bed.   
  
There's more quiet. Primrose thinks H'aanit's gone to sleep when she hears her speak.  
  
"Thou art still awake," H'aanit murmurs. "'Tis late."  
  
"I couldn't sleep," Primrose admits. "How was the hunt?"  
  
"The Redeye is slain," H'aanit says. "And, if all hast gone according to plan, Master is freed of his petrification."   
  
"I'm glad," Primrose hums. She means it. "Are you hurt at all?"  
  
"Worry not for me, dear Primrose," H'aanit chides. "But nay, I am unharmed. And thyself?"  
  
"I'm okay," Primrose says. "I just want to be out of this stupid desert."  
  
"We departeth on the morrow," H'aanit says.   
  
Primrose sighs. "It's so… _empty_ ," she says. "It's cold. Inhospitable. I know the Sunlands have good people, but all it's given me is sand and ruin."  
  
"Mm," H'aanit grunts acknowledgement.  
  
"The one good thing it ever gave me," Primrose murmurs, taking Yusufa's bracelets out from under the pillow. "Yusufa was the only good thing I ever saw in this wretched place. She's the reason I could make myself fake a smile all that time. She's the reason I put up with it all. I'm on this journey to avenge my father, yes, but Yusufa…" she shakes her head. "Without Yusufa, I don't think I'd have been able to remember who I was before Helgenish."  
  
"'Tis the first time thou hast spoken of Yusufa," H'aanit says.   
  
"Oh?" Primrose hadn't realized.  
  
"Worry not," H'aanit says. "I shalt not breathe a word to anyone lest thou giveth me the order to. 'Tis an honor to be granted this knowledge of thee."  
  
Primrose feels herself smile, just a little. "Well, that makes me feel better. Can't have everyone knowing I have emotions and such."  
  
"Thou hast a reputation, after all," H'aanit agrees.  
  
Primrose chuckles a little, the stuffiness in her chest easing just a bit. It's hard to feel ill at ease when there's a giant cat with claws that could rend livestock asunder purring at the foot of your bed, after all.  
  
"If thou willst," H'aanit ventures. "Thou can speakest to me, Primrose, of all what plaguest thy thoughts. Thou bearest a heavy burden on thine shoulders. I cannot carry it all for thee, but I can hold some of its weight."  
  
It's the most H'aanit way of expressing a very sweet sentiment. Primrose almost wants to cry. She doesn't, though, and instead turns onto her side. She reaches out with a careful hand until she finds H'aanit's, and rests her hand on top of hers.  
  
"Just stay with me," she murmurs. "Please."   
  
H'aanit nods. She gives Primrose's hand a gentle squeeze. "As long as thou shalt have me," she murmurs in reply. "I will remaineth by thy side."  
  


* * *

  
  
Morning comes, as morning always does, whether anyone wants it to or not. Alfyn wakes up early to help Tressa do inventory and run through it with Cyrus, at least twice, to make very very sure he hasn't forgotten anything. With everyone back safe, spirits run high. But when it comes time to leave the inn, Alfyn only counts six others.  
  
He frowns. "Hey, where'd Primrose go?"  
  
"Last I heard, she went up to the roof," Tressa says. "Wanted to say goodbye to Wellspring, or something."   
  
"I will see to her," H'aanit says. "'Twill just be a moment."  
  
Tressa is right; Primrose is on the flat rooftop with a few potted plants and an old chair and towels pinned to a clothesline swaying in the desert breeze, sitting on top of the boundary wall and looking at the sand dunes beyond the city limits. She has her eyes shielded with her hand.   
  
"Good morrow," H'aanit says. "We are about to leaveth."  
  
"Oh, yes," Primrose remembers. "Right, I'd forgotten. I just wanted a moment."  
  
H'aanit nods. "Aye."  
  
Primrose stands up. She looks at the bracelets clutched in her hands, worn gold and cloudy blue fake gemstones— Helgenish would never spend money on _real_ gems for his less-favored dancers— and Yusufa's absence aches like a stone caught in her lungs.  
  
"We're all together again," she says. "But I still feel… something. Maybe it's just the Sunlands. Maybe it's…" she swallows. "Oh, it's silly. But the sun was shining just like this the day Yusufa died, and this is the same desert where I let her ashes go."   
  
"'Tis not foolish," H'aanit promises.  
  
"I don't have time for this," Primrose mutters. But she feels tears in the corners of her eyes, and her hands tremble and curl around Yusufa's bracelets.   
  
"The world will not end if thou lettest thyself mourn for once," H'aanit says gently. "Thou art but human, Primrose. Let thyself rest."  
  
Slowly, Primrose pulls Yusufa's bracelets to her chest. She wants to disagree with H'aanit, but her shoulders shake, and her breath hitches, and she couldn't stop it if she tried. And so, she mourns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote the last quarter of this all in one night. writing darius was fun knowing he was gonna get fuckin decked


	6. Here I Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is part 1 of primrose's chapter 3. it got so long that i had to split it into parts. also i'm adding an epilogue so the ultimate chapter count will be 9. someone kill me

Noblecourt has always been a city of the arts. It's the first thing any youngster learns at school, is that their city was founded by artisans from Atlasdam and quickly became a thriving hub for music, poetry, painting, sculpture, and the theater as well as artisan goods like wine and cheese. Any Noblecourt citizen will tell whoever asks that Noblecourt's arts quarter is the finest in Orsterra— nay, the world. Like Grandport's Merchant's Fair, it draws performers and fame-seekers the world over. It was this gravity that turned Noblecourt into the proud city Primrose called home, though its days as merely a town of artisans are long gone. Now it boasts prestigious schools, well-curated libraries, a pristine record-keeping system, and a university almost as sought-after as Atlasdam's. Even more so, its citizens are safe and cared for, thanks to a public infrastructure the Azelharts had worked hard to implement and maintain for generations even before Primrose's father. From the moment Primrose was old enough to understand, she'd learned about the Azelhart legacy, and was told time and time again that this was what she would be when she grew up.   
  
Primrose's memories of Noblecourt are honeyed, tinted with sweetness that, perhaps, isn't _entirely_ accurate— Noblecourt is but a city and Geoffery Azelhart is (was) but a man, and it's inevitable that both would have flaws. But Primrose doesn't know them, and she was too young to have learned them when she left. And even so, trying to remain rational when looking back on her memories of Noblecourt and her father in the tumult of grief and then loneliness and then Sunshade and Helgenish and biding her time, enduring whatever came her way, waiting for even a hint of a lead, would've driven her crazy.  
  
But, coming back, even Primrose will admit that Noblecourt's definitely seen better days.  
  
"So, the story," Therion says, sitting on a terrace wall and gesturing with a sausage on a stick. "This is all just hearsay, mind. I don't know how true any of it is."   
  
"Anything to go on would help," Primrose says.   
  
"Well, first off, the City Watch is kind of… gone," Therion begins. "Most of its old members are still kickin,' just doing different jobs. A lot of them just left town. Can't say I blame 'em. Second—"   
  
"Mustard?" Tressa asks, offering him the bottle.   
  
"Don't mind if I do," Therion says, shaking some out onto the sausage. He takes a bite and continues with his mouth full. "They say, above-board, that the noble houses are all allied and governing Noblecourt together, at least until they can elect a new Governor— which, given how much they bicker, doesn't seem like it'll happen quickly. But everyone knows that the guys who are _really_ in charge are an organized group of smugglers called the Obsidians, and their leader is the one calling the shots."   
  
"A sad state for a proud city to find itself in," Olberic says, leaning against the terrace wall with his arms folded.   
  
"It's certainly nothing like the Noblecourt I grew up in, that's for sure," Primrose mutters. "And nothing like the Noblecourt my father worked so hard for. Not just him— generations of Azelharts. Do you know the leader's name?"  
  
"They call him the Lord Corvid," Therion says. "He's so reclusive that only a few people even know his real name— certainly no one _I_ talked to did."  
  
"Corvid," Primrose hums. "Why does that sound so familiar?"  
  
"Corvus is a genus within the Corvidae family, a family of birds that includes, among others, ravens, rooks, jackdaws, and crows," Cyrus says helpfully. "And you are searching for the _crows_ , are you not?"  
  
Tressa looks skeptical. "Would they really be that obvious?"  
  
"You underestimate the hamminess of people who do knowingly evil things," Therion replies. "They're all thespians, I swear."  
  
"I think that's kind of mean to thespians, don't you think?"  
  
"Have you _met_ a thespian? They deserve it."  
  
"Either way, I need to get closer to this Lord Corvid," Primrose decides. "He's either the Right Crow or he knows who is, and I intend to find out."  
  
"This bodes ill," Olberic says. "For a city to be under the control of this kind of man is a horrid state to be in. Surely the people are suffering."  
  
"And yet," Primrose hums, pulling out the note she'd pulled off the Left Crow from inside her bodice. "It strikes me as odd that Lord Corvid is so reclusive, but he's planning a party. The only problem is," she says. "I don't know anything _about_ this party. I don't know what it's celebrating, who's attending, or even the gods-damned dress code. This is a horrible RSVP."   
  
"It's never that easy with us, is it," Olberic remarks.   
  
The bell above a nearby shop door rings and Alfyn leaves, a bag of supplies in one arm and the other stuffed in the pocket of his vest. Oddly, for Alfyn, he's not smiling— his brow is actually furrowed, like he's thinking very hard about something. His expression clears when he waves to the rest of the group.   
  
"Howdy, all," he says. "I miss anything?"  
  
"Just wondering where to go from here," Primrose shrugs. "I know that whoever's planning this big party is who I'm after, but this thing doesn't give me any indication of who that is."  
  
"What's got _you_ so scrunched up, huh?" Tressa asks. "That's not like you."  
  
"Huh?" Alfyn rubs the back of his neck. "Oh, yeah, it's nothin' important. Just this guy in the stationary section of the shop there. He didn't do nothin,' just kinda gave me the creeps. Prolly nothing. I figured I shouldn't say anything, so I didn't."  
  
"That's best, in a city in this state," Therion says. "Don't wanna get mixed up in anything you don't need to be mixed up in. Otherwise we end up getting kidnapped again. 'Cuz that happens to one of us or another in every gods-damned city, huh?"  
  
Tressa nods empathetically. "You wouldn't think that we'd even have to say 'boy, I hope we don't get kidnapped on this important business this time,' but _apparently_ that's too much to ask for, it's ridiculous."  
  
"Well, that's why we've got the buddy system!" Alfyn says brightly. "No one goes anywhere alone. That'll at least mean that we have backup if one of us _does_ get yoinked."  
  
"A good plan," Primrose nods. Out of the corner of her eye, she spots a glimpse of something familiar— a shock of white hair, a purple doublet, a thick scarf. But she can't give it that much thought, because she sees Alfyn narrow his eyes at something behind her.   
  
"Don't look now," he mutters, busying himself counting the apples in his bag. "But that's the guy."  
  
Naturally, they all look.   
  
Perhaps it's providence, then, that Primrose's eyes meet with this stranger's at that exact moment; providence that the sense of familiarity would prove true, providence that Primrose has returned to Noblecourt and found herself face to face with none other than her old dear friend, Simeon.   
  
Simeon blinks. "Do mine eyes decieve me?" he remarks. "Lady Primrose?"   
  
"Simeon!" Primrose gasps. Her face breaks into a grin. "Oh, I can't believe this! How— where did—"   
  
"I could ask the same of you, my dear," Simeon replies. He looks just like he did in Primrose's memories— tall and elegantly handsome, his skin and hair and eyes all similar pale colors, stark against the dark of the clothes he wears. He always did favor dark colors— dramatics, probably. His smile is sorrowful. "How I missed you," he says. "I'd always known you'd grow into a beautiful woman, and it seems that proves true after all."   
  
"Flatterer," Primrose teases. "Oh, introductions— Simeon, these are some of my friends. We've been traveling together for a year or so. Everyone, this is my friend, Simeon."   
  
"Good to make your acquaintance, ser Simeon," Olberic says. Therion grunts. Cyrus waves. Alfyn nods.   
  
"Primrose mentioned you," Tressa recalls. "You really write plays?"  
  
Simeon chuckles modestly. "I dabble."  
  
"I remember your poetry the best," Primrose says. "Remember how you used to sneak me finished copies? They were really good, did you ever do anything with them?"  
  
"Ah, the poetry? No, not quite," Simeon admits. "But there's actually been some development. You see, ah…" he trails off, looking at the rest of the group. "Actually, my dear Primrose, will you walk with me? We have so much to catch up on."  
  
"We really do," Primrose agrees. "I'll meet you all back at the inn, okay?"   
  
Alfyn frowns. "You sure one of us can't tag along? Buddy system, and all." He locks eyes with Simeon, not moving his gaze.  
  
Simeon's grin falters. Primrose doesn't notice any of this. "Oh, Alfyn, it's fine," she promises. "Simeon's a good friend and a good man. I trust him."  
  
"Try to get back before too much longer," Tressa says. "The innkeeper let H'aanit at the oven, and I hear she has something tasty planned. You wouldn't wanna miss that."  
  
"I won't," Primrose promises. She gives the rest of them a smile and walks off with Simeon, leaving Alfyn to glare at the back of his head as they go.  
  
Olberic hums. "He seems like a fine young man."  
  
"Looked kinda frou-frou if you ask me," Tressa snorts. "Can't say I'm surprised. Creatives, y'know."  
  
Alfyn sighs. "Okay," he says. "Can I just say something?"  
  
"Shoot," Therion says.  
  
"I," Alfyn begins. "Don't trust that guy one bit."  
  
Tressa nearly chokes on her sausage. "I'm sorry, what?" she says. "Did I miss something? Did I wander into fucking _bizzaro-world_ when I wasn't paying attention?"  
  
"Really, Alfyn, even _Primrose_ trusts that man," Cyrus says matter-of-factly. "That should speak volumes to his character."   
  
Alfyn looks to Therion for backup. Therion shrugs. "I'm going with Primrose on this. You should know her trust doesn't come easy. Really, it's pretty fuckin' big that she's saying that at all."   
  
"You may still be worn from the walk, Alfyn," Olberic suggests. "It's not like you to doubt someone like this."  
  
"Yeah, maybe we should get back to the inn so you can have some of H'aanit's pie," Tressa suggests. "C'mon, medicine man."  
  
Alfyn sighs. "I guess that… could be it," he admits. "Yeah, I'm probably just imagining things." What Alfyn doesn't say is that he knows his gut, and his gut is telling him that Simeon is not to be trusted.  
  


* * *

  
  
Simeon brings her to a more secluded walkway overlooking a square park. "The truth is, Primrose," he sighs. "Not a day went past where I didn't think of you. After you left, I was consumed with worry. You were so angry, so… _consumed_ with the idea of vengeance. Of course, you were grieving, so I let it be. But then you left to pursue your vengeance. It worried me terribly."  
  
"You know I had to," Primrose says. "But I just have two more to go. Two more, and then I'll put my knife down."   
  
Simeon shakes his head. "Still, it consumes you," he says. "I remember when you were young, Primrose. You had such spirit, such determination to become a governor of Noblecourt that would do your father proud. Really, talking with you was a welcome break from having to deal with the senior groundskeeper."  
  
Primrose remembers that. "Old Artie was kind of a grouch, wasn't he?"  
  
"To say the least," Simeon replies. "I just… I look at you now, and I see the beautiful woman I always knew you would be, like a blooming rose. And yet, I also see thorns you've grown to protect yourself. The world has not been kind to you, has it?"  
  
Primrose's jaw tenses. "Come on, Simeon," she says, forcing her tone to sound light. "We've just reunited, and you want to talk about sad things? I know you love tragedy, but this is a little much."  
  
"Ah, fair," Simeon admits. He chuckles a little. "You know, I left Noblecourt not too long after you did. Of course I'd always longed to, once it proved near-impossible to sell my plays. This stuffy town has lost touch with its artisan roots— I'd always heard it spoken of that Noblecourt was where a young artist could find fame and fortune, make a name for himself. Trouble is, by the time I got here, everyone else had already soaked up all the fame and left none for me."  
  
"Oh, that's a shame," Primrose says. "You're such a good writer. I think any stage would be lucky to have your play upon it."  
  
Simeon's eyes sparkle. "Actually, that was what I was going to tell you next," he says. "And that's why I think that our meeting here is… fate, for lack of a better word. Six months ago, I was contacted by the Actor's Guild here in the city. One of their actors, while looking for an old script, had found the copy of my manuscript I'd sent in for review that'd sat unread in the archives for years, and he adored it so much that he insisted the guildmaster to find its writer and put on this play. Of course, I jumped at the chance, and made my way back up to Noblecourt posthaste. It seems my big break has finally come."  
  
Primrose brightens. "Oh, Simeon, congratulations!" she says earnestly.   
  
"Rumor has it that Lord Corvid _himself_ is interested in this production," he adds, leaning in like he's sharing a secret. "He's granted the Actor's Guild permission to hold a gala to celebrate opening night in six weeks' time. Every noble in the city will be in attendance. Including, if other rumors are to be believed, the Lord Corvid."  
  
Primrose's eyes widen. Could _this_ be the event that the letter spoke of? Could the guildmaster be the Right Crow she's been looking for? She has to attend this gala— she just hopes Simeon won't witness her kill the Right Crow. Simeon's one of the few things from her old life in Noblecourt that remains unsullied, still just as welcoming and peaceful as her memories. She can't let him know just how heavily she'd focused on her revenge quest just to make it through the years. She can't lose Simeon, too.   
  
"It sounds like quite a prestigious event," she says. "And as the playwright, I imagine you're the guest of honor?"  
  
"But of course," Simeon agrees. "And not only am I the playwright, I _also_ happen to be the leading man, playing Pierre himself."   
  
"Oh, I don't think you showed me that play!" Primrose says. "What was it about again?"  
  
"Yes, it's more recent," Simeon explains. "I'd only just finished editing when your father died. It was the tragedy about a young woman on a revenge quest across the continent, and her eventual downfall at the hands of her most trusted friend."  
  
"Vengeance and questing," Primrose hums, bemused. "Funny, even when I return home, fate finds a way to remind me why I left."  
  
"Oh, right," Simeon remembers. "I'm sorry, my dear, I had no intention of dredging up any bad memories. Pray, forgive me. It shan't happen again."  
  
"Don't worry about it," Primrose promises. "Though if you insist on repaying me, I've quite missed hearing your poems…"  
  
Simeon chuckles, leaning against the stone border wall. "Ah, I can manage a recitation," he says. He clears his throat and leans back before beginning.   
  
_"And when the moon waxes full and bright in dark heaven,_  
 _And stars glitter worlds away from earthly sorrow,_  
 _Would that Sleep hold you in her soft embrace._  
 _Then shall my eyes close, lips open in prayer._  
 _For it is only in dreams that we may meet again."_  
  
Primrose sighs. "How lovely," she says. "Simeon, you always did have such a way with words. I missed that more than you could imagine."  
  
"I wager I could," Simeon replies, his voice gentle. "If it was half of how much I missed you, my dear."  
  
A blush colors Primrose's cheeks. She chuckles, looking out at the green below. "You always were a charmer."   
  
"Then it is good to know I haven't lost my touch," he replies.  
  
"I hope it's not too late to get tickets to your play," she says. "I know how long you've wanted this. I wouldn't dream of missing it."   
  
"I think I can manage to get you a ticket," he says with a wink. "I have my ways." As he says so, the clock in the town center chimes the hour. Primrose looks up.  
  
"Goodness, is it noon already?" she asks. "I should get back to the inn. I don't want the others worrying about me."  
  
Simeon's smile sours an almost-imperceptible amount. "Oh, of course not," he agrees. "Well, they seem like good folk. I'm quite pleased you've found such a group to travel with. You know how dangerous Orsterra is to travel alone."   
  
Primrose chuckles. "I do know," she admits. "But I managed."   
  
"You know, had you asked, I would have gladly gone with you," he says. "We could've worked together to find your father's killers."  
  
Primrose feels a pang in her chest. "That would've been nice," she admits. Perhaps then she wouldn't have had to endure all of what she had to in Sunshade— Helgenish, the tavern patrons, the other dancers, the loss of her dignity. But that would mean that she'd never have met Yusufa. Even with how painful it was to lose her, would Primrose really trade that for never having met her at all?  
  
"Ah, I've taken up enough of your time," Simeon decides. "I'll walk you back to your inn. What say you, my lady?" He offers her his arm, like they're a couple going to an opera.  
  
Primrose giggles, light and girlish, and it feels strange to learn that she hadn't forgotten how to sound like that, and takes his arm. "I say that sounds wonderful," she says. "Thank you, kind sir."  
  


* * *

  
  
"She's not back yet."  
  
Tressa looks up from her piece of pie. "Yeah, 'cuz she's still with her friend," she says. "C'mon, Alfyn, you're _really_ that bothered?"  
  
"Thou hast nary tasted thine pudding," H'aanit points out, sounding slightly hurt.  
  
To make her feel better, Alfyn takes a bite of the blackberry pie. It's delicious and soul-healing, as always, but that's not the point. He goes back to staring at the front door. Like most inns, this inn doubles as a tavern, of sorts, though that's not its primary function. As such, it's not nearly as busy as most taverns would be at lunchtime, with only a few other patrons at the tables and another few at the bar. It's too early to serve any ale, but that hasn't stopped anyone from trying.  
  
He sighs. "I just got a really bad vibe from that Simeon guy," he says. "I dunno how. And I know how that sounds, coming from me, the guy who almost let a slaver go free 'cuz he's too damn faithful to the Hippocratic Oath."  
  
"That fellow seemed perfectly fine to me," Cyrus shrugs. "I don't see the problem."  
  
"No offense, teach," Therion says. "But I doubt you could recognize skeevy if it didn't come with an evil laugh and a twirly mustache."  
  
Cyrus is far, _far_ too old to pout, but that doesn't stop him from looking like he wants to. He takes a sip from his coffee instead of responding.  
  
"C'mon, Alfyn, even Primrose trusts him," Tressa points out. "Are you really gonna be like _'hey, don't trust that guy'_ to her after you've been trying to convince her it might be _okay_ to trust people?"   
  
"What, so, _you_ trust him?" Alfyn retorts.   
  
"Not as far as I could throw him," Tressa replies. "But I trust Primrose."  
  
"Tressa is right," Olberic agrees. "And I should think she knows him better than you, considering you've only spoken to him for about thirty seconds."  
  
"I didn't meet him, but I tend to think that someone's trustworthy until proven otherwise," Ophilia adds. "Primrose vouching for him is enough for me."  
  
Alfyn looks to Therion and H'aanit. "Come on, guys, back me up?"  
  
"I plead the fifth," Therion deadpans.  
  
"The what—"  
  
H'aanit hums, folding her arms. "'Tis true that instincts oft saveth one's hide on the hunt," she admits. "But we be not in the Darkwood, Alfyn, and Simeon be not a beast. Though, I must admitteth, he remainest a stranger to me. I will knowen not until I meet him."  
  
Alfyn buries his face in his hands. "I can't believe this," he groans. "I must be going crazy. I know Primrose trusts him, but I just can't shake this— this feeling in my gut. There's somethin' real weird going on with that guy, I just know it."  
  
"Alright, medicine man, if it'll make you feel better," Therion says. "I'll ask around about the guy while I'm looking into Lord Corvid for Primrose."   
  
Alfyn sighs. "Thanks, Therion."  
  
The bell over the front door jingles as Primrose walks in, followed by, of course, Simeon. He smiles politely at the rest of the group, sans Alfyn, whom he ignores.   
  
"Sorry I'm a little late," Primrose says, pulling out the empty chair and sitting down. Linde trots to Primrose's side and leans against her until Primrose scratches behind her ears. "Simeon and I got to talking, and I didn't realize how long it'd been."   
  
"Well, you didn't miss pie," Therion shrugs. "That's the important part."  
  
H'aanit hands her a plate with a slice. She looks over at Simeon. Her face is stoic, as usual. "And you wouldst be Simeon," she assumes. Linde stares at him, unblinking. He smiles awkwardly. Linde growls.  
  
"I… see my reputation precedes me," he says. "What a lovely cat."  
  
"Linde is a leopard," H'aanit says cooly. "You wouldst do well to rememberen this fact, ser."  
  
"You didn't meet H'aanit or Ophilia earlier," Primrose explains. "This is my friend, Simeon. I knew him when I was growing up in Noblecourt."  
  
"Mm," H'aanit hums. She looks from Primrose to Linde to Simeon to Alfyn and seems to come to some conclusion that remains a mystery to anyone who isn't her.   
  
"Well, I'll leave you all to it," Simeon decides. "But we ought to meet up again tomorrow, Primrose. I'll be at the Actor's Guild all day, so stop by anytime."   
  
"Of course," Primrose agrees. "I'll see you then." Simeon bows his head politely to the rest of the table and takes his leave. Primrose, completely unaware of the conversation that took place before she returned, turns her attention to her piece of blackberry pie.   
  
"So," Tressa ventures. "How'd you meet Simeon, anyway?"  
  
"He was the gardener's apprentice at the Azelhart manor when I was young," Primrose replies. "He started working there as a teenager when I was nine or ten. I often snuck out to the gardens, so that was where we ended up meeting. We started talking, and he'd write me stories and poems, and let me look at chapters of his manuscripts. I always loved that— it felt so exciting and secret." She chuckles a little. "Honestly, after I left Noblecourt, I'd expected to never see him again. It's a relief to me to know that he's doing well now."  
  
"Don't suppose your bard knew anything about Lord Corvid," Therion mutters.   
  
"Actually," Primrose says brightly. "I did learn a little something. In six weeks, Simeon's new play, Flight of the Raven, will have its opening night here in Noblecourt, and the Actor's Guild is hosting a gala to celebrate. It'll be an extremely prestigious event and, at least according to rumor, the Lord Corvid himself may make an appearance." She smiles, clearly pleased with herself, and takes a bite of her pie.  
  
Tressa's eyes widen. "Seriously?" she asks. "And you think that this is the event your guy is planning? And he's just a fuckin' actor?"  
  
"I still don't know for sure," Primrose admits. "And it's not like I even know who the actual party host is— I'd assume the guildmaster, but I could be wrong. But if we can get a hold of that guest list, we can at least start to investigate the people on it and narrow it down. The guildmaster should have a copy. Cyrus, if Therion steals it, can you copy it down for us before he notices it's gone?"  
  
"I wager that I can," Cyrus says proudly.   
  
Primrose's eyes sparkle. "Then in _that_ case," she decides. "I think that we ought to pay a visit to the Actor's Guild tomorrow."  
  


* * *

  
  
The Noblecourt Actor's Guild bustles with activity. Musicians in the pit below the stage tune their instruments and review the play's score. Stagehands touch up reused set pieces scattered across the stage and haul backdrop sheets up into the rafters. Others rush through with props and pieces of costumes. In the midst of it all, Simeon stands with an old man in a cravat, seemingly in the midst of some sort of heated discussion.   
  
"I'm sorry, Simeon, but it simply isn't possible," the old man is saying. "We _cannot_ run a play of this type with only one actor, and finding a new cast now would be an impossible task."  
  
"Mr. Vaughan, I can assure you," Simeon insists. "There's no need to cancel the whole show! We still have six weeks, I'm sure _someone_ in the Guild would be willing to fill the role—"  
  
"All the other actors are on other plays," Mr. Vaughan replies. "I repeat, I'm sorry, but unless you can come up with eight new actors, we'll have no choice."  
  
Simeon looks dismayed. At least, he does until he catches sight of Primrose and the rest of the group entering the auditorium. He brightens immediately, then smirks at Mr. Vaughan. "Eight new actors, you say?" he says. "Mr. Vaughan, sir, prepare to be blown away. Primrose!"   
  
"Good morning, Simeon," Primrose replies. "How's production?"  
  
"Oh, my dear Primrose, you and your friends have arrived at a most fortuitous time," Simeon tells her, taking her hands in his. "Mr. Vaughan, allow me to introduce a dear friend of mine, Lady—"  
  
"Just Primrose is fine," Primrose lies, before Simeon can say her name. "Are you the guildmaster?"  
  
"I am indeed," Mr. Vaughan says. He blinks heavily at Primrose through his thick eyeglasses. "Pardon me, miss, but you look remarkably familiar. And the name…"  
  
"Lots of people say that," Primrose shrugs. "Must have a common sort of face. Lovely to meet you, good sir."  
  
"Lady Primrose happens to be a most excellent actress," Simeon tells him. "I can vouch for her talent myself. As for her entourage— well, they may need a bit of teaching, but do they not fit the open roles we have perfectly? The young lady can be Tatiana, the scholarly gentleman can play Lord Whitmore, and I do believe that this young man would be a perfect fit for Julius, and... ah, you'd be a _perfect_ fit for General Minerva."

H'aanit blinks. "Thank you?"  
  
Mr. Vaughan hums dubiously. "And Lady Primrose herself?"  
  
Simeon gasps. "Why, Mr. Vaughn, I'm aghast that you even need to ask!" he says. "Lady Primrose would be perfectly suited to the role of Diana herself! Admittedly we are lacking in an another actress to play Lady Whitmore, but since it's such a small role and Lady Whitmore is never on stage with adult Diana, I imagine Primrose can handily play both parts."  
  
Primrose blinks. "You— want us to act in your play?" she repeats. "Simeon, I—"  
  
"You'll do beautifully," Simeon promises. "And I think that six weeks is _ample_ time to learn your roles, provided there's no time wasted, of course. But I have complete faith in you."  
  
"We still ought to do an audition," Mr. Vaughan says. "I'm hesitant to grant these people entry to the Guild if I haven't seen them act."   
  
"Oh, certainly," Simeon agrees. "And what say all of you?"  
  


* * *

  
  
"'It _brings_ me great _PRIDE_ to see this _fair_ city _THRIVING_ so,'" Cyrus reads, very loudly, his script in one hand and his other gesturing widely. "'The _HAPPINESS_ of his people is _truly_ all a lord should _strive_ for. For when his _PEOPLE_ are happy, his city _shall_ withstand _ANY_ tempest, even if its walls _FALL_ around them!'"  
  
"'My dear father,'" Simeon reads. "'If the happiness of his people is what a lord should strive for, then I say that you are the best lord that the fair city of Kingsyard has ever seen. I can only hope that when I come of age, I'll be only half as good as you.'"  
  
"'Oh, _WORRY NOT_ , DIANA,'" Cyrus continues shouting. He lunges forward, making a very large, sweeping gesture of denial with both arms. "'For I have _SEEN_ how you have _GROWN_ and _LEARNED_ beneath the tutelage of _the_ _FINEST_ scholars that money can buy, and _YOU_ —'" he points, also very dramatically, at stage right, where presumably Tressa will be standing once they're rehearsing the lines with the motions— "have BROUGHT me _NOTHING_ but _PRIDE!'_ "  
  
Simeon grimaces. "'Oh, father, I can only hope, then, that I will continue to do so. For I, too, want nothing more than to see Kingsyard, the city that raised me all twelve years of my life, continue to flourish, and that my children will grow up to be as happy as I.'"  
  
Cyrus pauses, turns the page, and looks again. "Oh, Lord Whitmore dies on page three?"  
  
"I belive I did _say_ that Lord Whitmore dies very early in the play," Simeon replies, quite patronizingly. "His death is, in fact, the inciting incident of the story and what drives Diana to embark on her quest for revenge."  
  
Cyrus blinks. "You _did_ say that," he repeats, though he sounds more like he's trying to convince himself. "I must have, ah, missed it."  
  
Simeon rubs his temples. "Professor Albright, could you, perhaps, consider _listening_ the next time I address all of you?"  
  
"Of course, of course," Cyrus agrees. "My apologies. Now where was I? Ah, here— 'My _BELOVED_ daughter…'"  
  


* * *

  
  
"'I am… um… truly…' Hold on, hold on, I've almost got it." Tressa squints at her script. "Aha! 'I am truly grapefruit t—' wait, that's not right."  
  
Simeon rubs his temples. "Grateful," he grinds out.  
  
"Ohhh yeah, okay, that makes more sense," Tressa admits. "'I am truly grateful to be my… ballooned father's chosen successor.' Damn, that isn't right either, is it?"  
  
Simeon buries his face in his hands. "Just say what you think makes sense," he caves. "You only have two scenes. Surely you can manage that."  
  
Tressa gives him a thumbs up. "Works for me!"  
  


* * *

  
  
  
"Wait, what if I forget what I'm supposed to do?" Olberic asks. "Forgive me, I'm not exactly a seasoned performer."   
  
"I'll prompt you," Simeon sighs. "Just. Get it over with. From the top of page fourteen."  
  
"Ah, of course." Olberic clears his throat. "'My dear friend William, the city of Kingsyard has truly fallen since your death. I shudder to think what you would say now. Oh, but I wish your death had not been necessary! Your daughter now walks the earth with naught but her revenge on her mind, when a young woman her age ought be thinking of courtship and finery. Truly, it pains me that it has come to this. My friend, I know this, that Diana now is on her way home to Kingsyard, not to visit your grave, but to drive her knife into my heart.'"   
  
He sighs deeply, exactly right level of dramatic. "'Ah, but I remember when she was but a girl, innocent and pure, who looked to you as though you hung the moon! Such halcyon days were sweet, but they are gone, and today, either I will come to your side in the afterlife, or your daughter will, and only the gods know the outcome.'"  
  
"'I may not be a god,'" Simeon reads. "'But I needn't be to know the answer to your question, Captain Ezekiel. You may have been my father's closest friend, but you were one of the men who murdered him— who _betrayed_ him! You have lost the right to call him your friend.'"  
  
"'Lady Diana,'" Olberic reads. "'I regret that it has come to this.'"  
  
"'Do you, Captain Ezekiel?'" Simeon reads. "'Well, I do not.'"  
  
Olberic hesitates. "It says 'battle scene' here," he says. "Do I…"   
  
"No, we'll skip that for now," Simeon decides. "Right, yes, battle, fighting, excitement— ah, here, page sixteen. 'It ends here, Captain Ezekiel. I am no longer the innocent little girl you knew.'"  
  
Olberic grunts, clutching his side with his free hand. "'I see you have grown strong,'" he reads. "'Your father… _urgh!_ Would be proud…'"   
  
"'You have lost the right to speak of my father,'" Simeon reads. "'Will you accept death at my hand, or will I have to force it out of you?'"  
  
"' _Hhrgh_ …'" Olberic grunts. "'Very well. You've earned this victory. I hope… _oogh_ … I hope that it brings you peace, little Diana.'"  
  
"Right, so, then she stabs you in the heart to deal the killing blow," Simeon tells him.   
  
"Yes," Olberic says. He says and does nothing else.  
  
Simeon rubs his temple. "Now you die," he says.   
  
"Oh!" Olberic remembers. "Yes! Right!"   
  
Another man would have lain down gently. Olberic is not that man. Olberic throws himself onto the stage with his full and considerable body weight. The floorboards crack underneath him.  
  
Simeon coughs. "Well, that was… indelicate," he says. "We'll work on your stage deaths, ser Eisenberg."  
  
"I had suspected as much," Olberic says, from the stage. "Er… can someone come help me up?"

* * *

  
  
"Wait, I _die?"_ Ophilia repeats. "What kind of a play _is_ this?"  
  
"A _tragedy_ , Sister Clement," Simeon sighs, beginning to regret his choices immensely. "Just read the script."  
  
"It's just— it's so sad," Ophilia says, visibly dismayed at her script.  
  
"C'mon, Ophilia, Simeon says," Tressa calls. She snorts at her own joke. "Now you have to do it or you lose the game."  
  
Simeon smiles wrly. "Yes, indeed. Simeon says."  
  
Ophilia looks at the page again. "'Diana, my dearest and only friend,'" she reads. "'I only wish I could help you more than I have. It is your friendship alone that's kept me from plunging into despair in this wretched town.'"  
  
"'Sweet Tatiana, don't worry so for me,'" Simeon reads. "'For you are worth more to me than all of the stars in the sky, and I persist in my quest, as harrowing as it will be, only so I can bring you safely home with me.'"  
  
Ophilia's eyes tear up. "'You would truly bring one as low as _I_ into your home, Diana? Such a thing is beyond my wildest dreams, and yet—' sorry, give me a second— 'and yet here you stand before me, as real as the town around us. But how am I to know that you're not merely a dream, Diana? How am I to know that you will be here when I wake?'"  
  
Simeon waits, one bored eyebrow arched, while Ophilia fumbles with a crumpled handkerchief and dabs the tears from her eyes. When she finishes, he returns to the script. "'You'll have to trust my word as your friend and know that you are as dear to me as I am to you. This, I promise you.'"  
  
"'Oh, D-Diana, I—'" Ophilia hiccups. "'I—' M-may I be excused, p-please?"  
  
Simeon's forehead hits the edge of the stage with a heavy clunk.  
  


* * *

  
  
Primrose rubs her temples. "Right, okay, Ophilia is still crying. Maybe she should play young Diana instead of Tatiana?"  
  
"Miss Colzione looks much more like you, though," Simeon insists. "I'm sure a bit of practice will have her performing without nearly as many tears. Though, admittedly, that may be quite useful when it comes time for Tatiana's eventual death scene. Genuine tears _would_ be quite moving for the audience."  
  
"I suppose so," Primrose admits. "But is that your verdict, that we can perform the show?"  
  
"Your group has… a variety of different levels of skill," Simeon admits. "Therion and H'aanit are extremely talented, Sir Eisenberg and Professor Albright have potential, with a bit of refining, Sister Clement shows promise once we work through the crying issue, and Miss Colzione…" Simeon grimaces. "She seems to have issues reading the script."  
  
"I'll work with her," Primrose says. "What about Alfyn?"  
  
Simeon hesitates. "I don't think he's really… the actor type," he says. "But he'll do fine as the narrator, provided he learns a bit of expression when reading."   
  
"But, the show can go on?" Primrose presses.  
  
Simeon smiles. "Yes, the show can go on. And it will! I must say, Primrose, this is something of a dream come true for me. Long have I dreamed of penning a play with you as the leading lady. You have a bearing _meant_ for the stage— meant to dazzle all who witnesses!"  
  
Primrose chuckles modestly. "And here I thought you just told me that to help me feel less nervous about class presentations."  
  
"I promise, all I say is the complete and honest truth," Simeon swears. "I would never mislead you like that. You're my oldest and dearest friend."  
  
"So, does that mean I needn't audition for the role of your leading lady?" Primrose teases.  
  
"My dear, you were practically _born_ for this role," Simeon replies. He rubs his hands together, hopping up onto the stage. "So! Mr. Vaughan, I trust this is good enough proof for you?"  
  
Mr. Vaughan sighs. "Well, we certainly have a few… diamonds in the rough, as it were, but yes, fine, given that we have no other options."  
  
Simeon brightens. "Marvelous! Well, then, I'll see about talking to the rest of stage crew, wardrobe, cosmetics, the props department, and of course we'll need to change the names on the posters. But obviously this means that all of you will get to attend the Opening Night Gala, exactly six weeks from now. You have until then to memorize your lines, rehearse on your own as well as with the rest of the cast, and, ah, make yourself presentable. It _is_ a formal event, after all. Group rehearsals are every morning at ten, but I suggest you all be here a little bit early because, frankly, you'll need all the help you can get. Now, if you'll all excuse me— though, Primrose, when you have a minute, I'd like to talk with you." He turns tail and hurries backstage, presumably to inform the rest of the production of the change in casting. Mr. Vaughn sighs and follows.  
  
Everyone looks at Primrose.  
  
"Oh, what's everyone looking at _me_ for?" she demands. "If the guildmaster is the one putting on the party, then he's you-know-who. But that wouldn't help at all if I couldn't get in, would it? Now _all_ of us have legitimate entry."  
  
"It _is_ probably a good thing that you won't be going in there alone," Olberic admits. "I imagine that opening night needs to be a success for the gala to really go on, though, wouldn't you think?"  
  
Tressa raises her hand. "Yeah, cool, except five of the eight of us can't act well enough for a Big Success."   
  
"That's no attitude to have, Tressa!" Cyrus says brightly. "Certainly, acting isn't something _I'd_ ever imagined myself doing, either, but it would be remiss of all of us if we simply passed up this opportunity to learn a new skill!"   
  
"It _would_ be an interesting story to tell in my letters home," Ophilia admits. Her eyes are still puffy and red. "I do have some acting experience. I played Steorra in the church's annual Thirteen Gods pageant for six years running."   
  
"Aw, man, I remember those," Alfyn chimes in. "I always got stuck playin' a tree."  
  
"Did you guys do the musical version?" Tressa asks.  
  
"The what?"  
  
"Moving right along," Primrose says. She looks around, making sure neither Simeon nor Mr. Vaughn are within earshot, and leans in. "It's still an assumption at best that Mr. Vaughn is the Right Crow, and I think the Lord Corvid is worth investigating, so we still need that guest list. Therion?"  
  
"Consider it done."  
  
"Excellent," Primrose approves. "Now, Simeon _can't_ know about this. To keep him from getting suspicious, we need to make the play a success."  
  
Alfyn frowns. "I dunno, Primrose, that guy kinda gives me the willies," he says. "You don't think he seems creepy at all?"  
  
Primrose quirks an eyebrow. "Not really."  
  
"Ah, maybe I'm just imagining things," Alfyn shrugs. "I just get a real bad feeling."   
  
"He _seems_ alright," Tressa ventures. "But Primrose, you know him better, right? I wouldn't play _poker_ with the guy or anything, but I trust you when you say he's a good guy."  
  
"He is," Primrose insists. "He's always been nice to me."   
  
"Not to change my tune too much from what I said earlier," Therion admits. "But you haven't seen him for like, ten years. Maybe stuff's changed."  
  
Primrose frowns. Therion does have a point. She just doesn't want to admit it— Simeon is one of the few things from her old life that's stayed the same, her memories of him untouched by blood and anger.   
  
She shakes her head. "We have other things to worry about. I also need the rest of you to keep an ear out for any information about the Lord Corvid," Primrose continues. "Gossip, chatter, hearsay, it doesn't matter how much is true or plausible, I just need to know what people say so I have something to go on when I talk to him. In the meantime," she decides. "All of you should probably practice your lines. I'm going to talk with Simeon and then go see what I can find."   
  
"Where are you going to eavesdrop?" Alfyn asks.  
  
"Where else?" Primrose replies. "The brothels."   
  


* * *

  
  
Simeon is in the director's office, shuffling through papers behind a desk. There are boxes of props and racks of costumes stuffed into the corners, and masks hung on the walls alongside pinned-up posters and playbills from previous shows. He smiles at her when she enters the room.  
  
"You wanted to see me, Simeon?" she asks.  
  
"I did," Simeon nods. "I wanted to discuss your friends."  
  
Ah, of course. "They're trying," Primrose says. "You can't fault them for screwing up a little. None of them are exactly professional actors. Hell, neither am I. I only took theatre for a year and I cried every time I went onstage."  
  
Simeon shakes his head. "It's not that," he says. "Your friends… seem like they don't like me. The one young man, Alfyn, in particular."  
  
Primrose frowns. "I noticed that, too," she says. "It's strange. Usually, it's the other way around. I don't trust people easily, not since Sunshade. Meanwhile Alfyn trusts everyone he meets, even if they end up hurting him later— and they have. I can't imagine why he doesn't trust _you_."  
  
Simeon hums. "Jealousy, perhaps?" he asks. "He seems quite protective."  
  
He is, but that doesn't sound quite right. "Maybe," Primrose admits. "Jealous of what?"  
  
"Well, I _have_ been spending quite a lot of time around you," Simeon guesses. "Now, of course, I can't pretend to fathom what goes on in another man's mind, but perhaps he's not quite as wholesome as you may think."  
  
"Alfyn?" Primrose snorts. "I don't think he's capable of lying."  
  
"Ah, well, you know him better than I do," Simeon chuckles. "But perhaps it's worth considering."   
  
"I suppose," Primrose admits. "Simeon, can I ask you something?"  
  
"Anything, my dear."  
  
"I mean, maybe it's a stupid question," she says. "But… you're telling me the truth, right? You've always told me the truth?"  
  
Simeon frowns. "Of course I have," he promises. "I'm hurt that you need to ask. Have I not _always_ been honest with you? Do you not trust me?"  
  
"No, no, I do," Primrose says hurriedly. "I just… it's silly. Never mind."  
  
"You can tell me anything," Simeon urges. "If something's bothering you…"  
  
"Just something Therion mentioned," Primrose says. "About how we kind of haven't seen each other in over ten years, so maybe something's… changed? I don't know. I don't _think_ I really believe him."  
  
Simeon hums. "That sounds a bit suspicious, Primrose," he says. "Why would your friend Therion try to drive a wedge between us like that?"  
  
Primrose frowns. "You think that's what he's doing?"  
  
"It's the most reasonable explanation I can come up with," he says. "Either way, it doesn't sound like something that a friend would do. Trying to separate you from an old friend like that." He shakes his head. "How juvenille."  
  
Primrose forces a chuckle. "It's probably nothing," she says. "So, about the show, I actually had a few questions…"  
  


* * *

  
  
Primrose sounds a lot more confident about where she's going than she feels. She didn't even know what a brothel was until Sunshade. Even if she did, it wasn't like she'd know where to even start. Noblecourt's a big city, and Primrose doesn't have it memorized.  
  
Still, she figures if she looks enough, she'll find something. So she wanders the familiar avenues lined with less-familiar buildings, keeping an eye out for something pointing the way to a red-light district. For a city supposedly run by a reclusive criminal overlord, Noblecourt certainly doesn't look it. Not on the surface, at least, Primrose notices. The buildings still stand. The ivy still grows. But there are no gaggles of children playing hopscotch on the sidewalks, no couples sititng together on the terrace walls, no slack-jawed visitors losing themselves in the magnificent sight of Noblecourt's distinguished architecture. There are still people, but their attitude is tense, on edge, as if they're all carefully keeping themselves in line lest they end up "disappearing" like so many others.   
  
Perhaps it's luck that brings her onto the avenue through the neighborhood that leads to Azelhart Manor, sitting behind its gate and built on its embankment at the highest point in the city like a watchful guardian. But, clearly, no one's been there in quite some time, probably since Primrose left. The gates are locked tight and chained shut. The grounds are overgrown and full of weeds. Primrose sees broken windows and a door wrenched open with a pry bar— a locked gate is hardly a deterrent to those intending to loot the place. She supposes that she should feel upset at her childhood home being looted, but she doesn't. At the end of the day it's just a house full of things, and Primrose took the things with sentimental value she could carry in her school bag when she left.   
  
She wonders, though, if they ever got her father's blood out of the carpet.   
  
The cemetery where they buried him is another few blocks down, and she lingers when she walks along the road overlooking it. She could go visit her parents' graves, read the epithets carved into their tombstones. Were she a different person, living a different life, perhaps that's what she'd do, and she'd mourn for them like a good daughter would. But Primrose doesn't live that life, and though she feels the ache in her throat, her eyes are dry.   
  
Well, that's just fine. She doesn't have the time for mourning, not while she's still looking for information. She'll return and finally visit the graves when all three of the Crows are dead— that's what she'd decided those years ago when she set off on her quest in the first place.   
  
She's about to turn around again and keep searching when she hears someone coming up the stairs from the cemetery to street level. They stop. Then they speak.   
  
"Excuse me, miss," they say. It sounds like an older man, rough but somehow kind and understanding and very, very familiar. "You wouldn't happen to be…"   
  
Primrose looks at him. She does recognize him. She smiles and bobs her head. "It's been too long, Revello."  
  
Revello Forsythe, former lieutenant commander of the Noblecourt City Watch, stares at her in shock. "Lady Primrose?" he says. "It's really you? Gods, I... when you disappeared..."  
  
"The city thinks I'm dead," Primrose guesses. "I suppose that's fair. I didn't exactly say goodbye."  
  
Revello shakes his head, leaning on his shovel. "I'm just glad you're safe. Are you here to visit your parents?"  
  
Primrose hesitates. "No, Revello, not yet. I'm on the trail of my second mark. When the third is dead, then I'll come visit them. If they have to see me with this blood on my hands, then it should be when it's all finished."  
  
"So you really did it," Revello murmurs. "Begun your vengeance. When you told me you wanted to, I thought it was your grief talking. But then you left. Where on Orsterra did you go, child?"  
  
So Primrose tells him. And it's strange how easily she can-- but at the same time, it isn't. She's known Revello and his family nearly her whole life. It hits her how much she's missed them, now that she's back. When all is said and done, they're really the closest thing to family she has left.  
  
She breathes. "So, now you know the whole sad story. It's not over, but I'm close. Once I take care of my next mark, then..." she clenches her fist around the hilt of her dagger.  
  
Revello nods. "The world has not been kind to you, child," he says. "You've endured horrors one your age never should."  
  
Primrose's throat feels tight. She coughs and forces herself to chuckle abashedly instead. "Well, that's just how it goes sometimes, isn't it? But that's enough about me. How have you been? How are Anna and Jan?"  
  
Revello's smile looks strained. "We're getting by," he says. "Things have been... different since Lord Corvid came into power. But I'm sure you'd rather sit down over tea to discuss this than stand around out here, aye?"  
  
Something in his tone says it's not a request.  
  
Anna Forsythe makes them tea. It's refreshing to Primrose that not much of their home has changed. They're ten years older, yes; the wrinkles at the corners of their eyes are more pronounced, and there's gray in Revello's mustache and in Anna's hair, but their home is still the same as Primrose remembers it. She sat at this very table eleven years ago, after her father's funeral. Jan snuck her strawberry jam cookies that they're not supposed to have before dinner, and Anna pretended not to notice.  
  
They'd always done so much for her. Primrose just wishes she'd been able to realize that back then, and tell them as much.   
  
Revello sighs. "The truth is," he says. "After Lord Azelhart's death, the balance of power between the noble families shifted dramatically. The Azelharts were the keystone that kept the rest of the noble houses from collapsing in on themselves and destabilizing all of Noblecourt. It's only the gravity of the wake Geoffery left that kept the other lords from falling to the petty squabbles that kept them divided them those years ago. They tried to keep order themselves in Geoffery's place, but their hold on Noblecourt was weak. With Watch-Captain Albus gone as well, it was only a matter of time before the City Watch fell apart and the Lord Corvid's people took control behind the scenes with the noble houses as their puppets."  
  
Primrose hums. "Seems I have my work cut out for me."  
  
"Lady Primrose, I dearly hope you know what you're getting into," Revello says. "It's dangerous business. I'm lucky that my family is safe and we're still allowed to reside in Noblecourt, and I only barely scratched the surface."   
  
"I have to, Revello," she says, and she means it. "This is all I've wanted for nearly half my life. I've already given up anything that the Lord Corvid could take away. I don't have a home for him to burn or a family for him to threaten. My name means nothing. My pride has already been stripped away. There is no horror he could visit upon me that I wouldn't endure until the day comes where the men who killed my father are dead by my hand."   
  
Revello stares at his teacup. He's only in his fifties, but to Primrose, he looks twenty years older— the tiredness in his eyes, the gauntness of his cheeks, the slouch of his shoulders all paint him as a world-weary old man about to watch one of the few people he loves left walk head-on into mortal danger.   
  
"I suppose I can't stop you," he sighs. "But the least I could do is tell you what I know. The Lord Corvid is an avid theatre-goer, hence his endorsement and attendance at the upcoming gala the Actor's Guild is putting on. It's quite unusual for him to appear among even at meetings with his delegates. He'll be guarded, of course. Sneaking in and getting to him, even just to talk to him, won't be an easy feat."  
  
"Well, I have a way in," Primrose muses. "It's Simeon's play— you remember Simeon, right— and I happened to run into him just earlier today at just the right time. His actors all ran out at the last minute, so he practically begged me to play the heroine."  
  
Revello hums approvingly. "I knew that lad would go places. It's quite lucky that you'll be in the cast, then. I'm sure you'll do wonderfully. But you'll still need to get past his guards."  
  
Primrose waves a hand. "That's the easy part. The hard part is getting the rest of the cast ready for opening night in the span of six weeks."  
  
"Your co-actors?" Revello asks. "Are they not… actors?"  
  
Primrose grimaces. "Not as much, no. See, Revello, since I left Sunshade, I've found about seven new friends…"  
  


* * *

  
  
"'… Our story begins some years ago in the fair city of Kingsyard, a flourishing merchant town nestled in the pristine hills. The people are healthy, happy, and safe, and it's all due to the efforts of its Lord William Whitmore, a kind and noble man.'"  
  
"Alright, Professor, that's your cue," Simeon orders. Cyrus enters stage right, waving to an imaginary crowd.   
  
"'As the LORD of this _FINE_ city, a HAPPIER man I could _not_ _BE_ ,'" Cyrus recites. "'TRULY, _Kingsyard_ is the _PRIDE_ of our country, and _SO_ I look _UPON_ it with _SATISFACTION_ _and_ with _CONTENTMENT_.'"  
  
Alfyn sighs heavily. "'Of course, Lord Whitmore doesn't work alone. He has trustworthy friends, skilled advisors, and professional business partners. And at the end of the day, he has his loving wife, Lady Silvia Whitmore, and his beautiful daughter, Diana.'"  
  
"Ah, Primrose, you're just in time," Simeon calls. "We're doing a line read from the top. Do you mind?"  
  
"Of course not," Primrose promises. Therion tosses her a script, which she catches on her way up to the stage. From backstage, Tressa tosses her a bolster pillow with a piece of paper reading _'BABY'_ pinned to it. You work with what you have.   
  
""SILVIA, my beautiful WIFE,'" Cyrus recites. "'You are TRULY the finest woman a man could HAVE by his SIDE. I daresay I am THE happiest man in the ENTIRE country!'"  
  
"'Oh, dear husband,'" Primrose reads from the script, cradling the pillow in her other arm. "'I would say that it's I who is happy to have a husband as just and fair as you. Why, the entire city _adores_ you. It brings me great joy to think of the future our daughter will have to grow up in a home like this, and with a father like you.'"  
  
"' _DARLING_ , _you_ are _TOO_ kind to me,'" Cyrus recites. "'You MUSTN'T forget that she _WILL_ have a WONDERFUL _mother_ as well.' Er, excuse me a moment."  
  
Simeon quirks an eyebrow. "What?"  
  
"The script says 'William kisses Silvia,'" Cyurs says. "So must I… _kiss_ Primrose?"  
  
"Considering that it _is_ in the script, _yes_ ," Simeon replies. "Is that a problem?"  
  
Cyrus purses his lips. "I just. Perhaps it's different in thespian circles, but even _I_ know that kissing is quite… intimate. Primrose, I don't want to make you uncomfortable. I know there are. Things. That may not be. Er. Good ideas." It's an admirable effort he's making to be discreet, and it's almost cute how flushed he is.  
  
"Just kiss her cheek, then," Simeon sighs. "Is that acceptable?"  
  
"I—" Cyrus hesitates. "Yes."  
  
Simeon nods expectantly. Cyrus gingerly leans in, bumps his face against Primrose's cheek, then pulls back. "Like that?"  
  
Simeon rubs the bridge of his nose. "We'll work on it. Keep going. Mr. Greengrass!"  
  
"Yeah, yeah," Alfyn grumbles. "Uh, right. 'But, tragically, Lord Whitmore's happiness with his wife would not last, for soon after his daughter's first birthday, Lady Silvia succumbed to illness. The entire city mourned with him, for just like Lord Whitmore, Lady Silvia was also much loved.'"  
  
Primrose tosses the pillow to Tressa as she jumps off the stage, who in turn tosses it back to Olberic to take her place.   
  
"'However, Diana still grew up wanting for nothing,'" Alfyn continues. "'As she grew, she and her father were very close, as fathers and daughters are. Lord Whitmore had every confidence in her ability to succeed him as lord of Kingsyard.'"  
  
"'It brings me _GREAT_ pride to see this _FAIR_ city _thriving_ so,'" Cyrus says. "'The _happiness_ of his PEOPLE is _TRULY_ _all_ a lord should strive for. For when his people are _HAPPY_ , his city shall _WITHSTAND_ _any_ tempest, _EVEN_ if its walls _fall_ around them!'"  
  
Tressa squints at the script, shrugs, and snaps it shut. "'Father, I greatly admire your confidence, and I take your words to heart. If the happiness of his people is what a lord should strive for, then you are the absolute best lord Kingsyard has ever seen, ever. I can hardly wait to do you proud when I come of age.' How's that?"  
  
"Not bad," Simeon admits. "Keep going."  
  
"'Oh, WORRY _NOT_ ,'" Cyrus continues. "'For I _HAVE_ seen how YOU have _grown_ and _learned_ beneath the tutelage of _THE_ _finest_ scholars that money can buy, _and_ YOU—'" he points— "have _brought_ _ME_ nothing _BUT_ pride!'"  
  
Tressa preens. "Aw, shucks, dad. I mean, uh— 'Father, I also want to see Kingsyard, the city that raised me for all—" she glances at something written on her hand— "fifty-one years of my life—' wait, that doesn't sound right."  
  
"Twelve, miss Colzione," Simeon sighs. "You're supposed to be twelve."  
  
"Oh, that makes more sense," Tressa admits. "Do I really look like I could play twelve, though? I mean, I'm almost nineteen."  
  
"I think Simeon cast you as a twelve-year-old because you look younger than the rest of us," Therion volunteers. "Theater. You work with what you have."  
  
"You know a lot about the theater, Therion," Ophilia notices.  
  
Therion shrugs. "I lived above one for a while. Picked some stuff up here and there."  
  
"Moving along," Simeon urges.  
  
"Oh, right, sorry. 'I just hope that I can do your legacy justice, father. It's pretty big, but I'm _determined_ to grow to fit it…'"  
  


* * *

  
  
"'… It's father! He's been murdered!'" Tressa cries. "'He got stabbed three times right in the gut! Now it seems that I have to go on a journey across the whole country to find his killers and kill them back! Good thing I have this knife!'" She pulls out a paintbrush labeled _'KNIFE'_ from her pocket.   
  
"That was a _four-page_ soliloquy," Simeon grinds out. "I wrote a _four-page soliloquy_ that she just summed up in forty seconds."  
  
"I'm just that fuckin' good, baby!" Tressa says proudly. "'Now, I don't have much to go on, because I didn't see the murderer's faces, but I did see that they all had matching friendship bracelets with hawk feathers! That seems inefficient enough that it _must_ be done on purpose! And, thanks to my exceptional twelve-year-old hearing, I heard that one of them frequents a small nasty crime town called Brightshadow! Time to blow this pop stand!'"  
  
Simeon puts his head in his hands. "I'm watching years of work being butchered before my very eyes," he mumbles.   
  
"You know," Primrose remarks. "Simeon, this has been eating at me. This story seems very familiar. It's strange."  
  
"Yeah, if I didn't know any better, I'd say your _buddy_ here was doin' it on purpose," Alfyn says, looking at Simeon. His words are teasing, but the look in his eye is anything but.  
  
"Divine coincidence, I promise," Simeon tells him. "I was working on this play before Lord Azelhart died."  
  
"To be fair, it _does_ make a real good story," Tressa points out.  
  
"I think it's a very sad story," Ophilia says. "Dead fathers, and promises that don't get fulfilled, and horrible people getting in the way, and— and the ending?" She sniffles. "It's just— just horribly sad."  
  
"You _did_ always like your tragedies, Simeon," Primrose says wryly. "It's a match made in heaven. The hopeless sob story quest and the sadist that made it happen."  
  
"I suppose there's just something so… _thrilling_ about watching a tragedy," Simeon muses. "Something that reveals the very raw parts of human emotion. I feel that people are like crystal geodes, in that sense. You don't know the real beauty beneath the surface until they're broken on the floor before you."  
  
Ophilia shivers. "That's awful," she says. "The world is so full of tragic things and monstrous things and horrific things already."  
  
"Such is life, Sister Clement," Simeon shrugs.   
  
Primrose doesn't realize that she's clenched her fists until she tries to turn the page in her script and finds her nails digging into the pages. There's no reason discernible to her why she's so irritated. They're both right. The world is full of tragic and monstrous and horrible things, and that's just how life is. It was life for Primrose for ten years. It was life for Yusufa from the moment it began until the moment it ended. It was life for numerous people Primrose met during her years in Sunshade— perhaps it still is. She knows this. So why does it bother her so much?  
  
Therion nudges her. "Hey," he mumbles. "You doing okay?"  
  
"Fine," Primrose lies. "Don't worry about me. Simeon, should we start the next scene, the scene in Brightshadow with Tatiana?"  
  
"Yes, good idea," Simeon says. "Sister Clement, the way to get better at reading your lines without crying is to practice them."  
  
"I guess so," Ophilia admits. "Primrose, you can help me, right?"  
  
"Sure," Primrose says. "Alright, page six."  
  
Ophilia clears her throat. "'It sickens me how cruel General Minerva can be to _you_ but none of us others, Diana. You've done nothing wrong, nor have you ever done _any_ of her jobs less than perfectly…"   
  


* * *

  
  
Rehearsal is long and exhausting. At the end of the day, Primrose is more than happy to go straight to bed after dinner, and the rest of the team shares the sentiment. H'aanit rolls her bedroll out next to Primrose's bed. Linde, who has been starved of affection all day because there's no role for a giant cat in Simeon's play, plops herself on Primrose's lap the minute she sits down, wilfully ignoring the fact that she's a snow leopard and not a house cat.  
  
Primrose chuckles, scratching behind her ears. "Alright, alright," she concedes. "I missed you too, big girl."  
  
Linde purrs, her tail thumping on the bed. She's a simple cat with simple needs.  
  
"Fie, Linde, thou willst crush her," H'aanit chides. "Thou be not a kitten."  
  
"I don't mind," Primrose promises. "She's a good kitty."  
  
H'aanit shrugs. She glances over at the rest of the room. Ophilia and Tressa, both exhausted from a long day of rehearsal, are both already asleep.   
  
"You don't have to keep staying on the floor, H'aanit," Primrose says. "There's room up here with me."  
  
H'aanit shakes her head. "I findeth it difficult to rest well in such beds," she says. "'Tis too soft. I always feeleth as if I'm being swallowed."  
  
"Ah, fair," Primrose admits. She can't ignore that the idea of getting a little closer sounds kind of nice. It's hard to be afraid of some bad dreams when you have a six-foot-tall muscle-bound Amazonian war goddess nearby, not to mention the leopard.   
  
She sighs. "I feel like it'll be a long six weeks," she says. "And not just because we'll have to spend basically all of it rehearsing. Do you like Simeon, H'aanit?"  
  
H'aanit hums thoughtfully. "I cannot speaketh true on like or dislike," she admits. "But Linde doth not seem to." Linde mrrps agreement.  
  
"Simeon's never been good with animals," Primrose admits. "The guard dogs would always bark at him if he got too close."  
  
"Animals aren better judges of character than one may thinkest, Primrose," H'aanit says. "They canst smellen something rotten from leagues away."  
  
Primrose hums. Her hand keeps idly scratching Linde's ears, but her mind can't help but go back to what Simeon said. She wants to trust the rest of the team, but Simeon might have a point, too.   
  
She sighs. "People are so _complicated_ ," she mumbles.   
  
H'aanit nods. "Aye," she says. "Men art but beasts that hath discovered law and taxes."  
  
"Well, you're right about that," Primrose chuckles. She leans back, letting her head rest on the starchy inn pillow. The room is quiet, the city outside winding down with the sunset. Primrose reaches one hand down towards H'aanit. Wordlessly, H'aanit takes it.   
  
It's going to be a long six weeks, still, but that's not going to stop her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mr. vaughan looks like manfred von karma, if u want like a mental image. but like, slightly less obviously evil.


	7. Collecting Roses

With every passing day, opening night creeps ever closer. Between Primrose, Simeon, Therion, and H'aanit, they've actually managed to get the other five into something resembling competent actors— at the very least, to the point they won't get jeered offstage. With a few changes to the script to fit in with Tressa's ad-libbing and a few other minor edits, Primrose finds herself getting kind of attached to the production. In the meantime, the rest of the Actor's Guild is busy setting up for the gala— dinner theater kind of necessitates a lot of preparation. It's funny, Primrose hadn't even thought about fancy noble parties at all, let alone about attending them, since she left home.  
  
"Preparations are going swimmingly," Simeon tells her during one of their talks after rehearsal. "Everything is going _exactly_ as I'd planned."   
  
"I'm glad everything is progressing on schedule," Primrose says. "It seems like quite a big event to organize."  
  
Simeon nods. "Yes, with the Lord Corvid in attendance, there are quite a lot of moving parts. Actors are just one part of a show, you know. An integral part, of course, but certainly not the only one. The costumes, the set, the lighting, the theater setup, the catering— all vital pieces that would make the entire operation collapse if one were to break."  
  
"Here's hoping that none do," Primrose says. "I know how much this means to you, Simeon."  
  
Simeon smiles gratefully. "And it means the _world_ to me that you could be a part of it," he replies. "My muse. My twinned soul. My luminary."   
  
Primrose laughs. "Flatterer."   
  
Simeon grins admittance. "If it brings out that beautiful smile, then so be it."  
  
She shoves him playfully. "You never change, do you? Still with that silver tongue."  
  
He chuckles. "You _have_ changed, my dear, but it's far from unwelcome. I always knew you would become a beautiful woman with a bearing meant to inspire."   
  
"I wouldn't go _that_ far…"  
  
"And why not?" Simeon replies. "Every word I say to you is true, my dear. Would you truly doubt your oldest friend?"  
  
Primrose shakes her head. "Of course not," she promises. "But, hey, I should probably go help the others with their lines. We need all the time we can get, and all."  
  
Simeon nods obligingly. "By all means," he says. "Then I'll see you tomorrow."  
  
Primrose gives him a smile and darts off, leaving Simeon to watch her retreating back. He adjusts his cravat around his neck, the faintest trace of a smile still lingering on his lips.   
  
"The moon waxes full and bright in dark heaven," he murmurs to himself. "And stars glitter worlds away from earthly sorrow."  
  
Simeon adjusts his cravat and returns to the director's office, letting his words hang unheard in the air.  
  


* * *

  
  
It is four weeks until opening night, and Ophilia lies on the stage with a knife in her gut.  
  
A prop knife, that is. Everyone knows that you're not allowed to take weapons into a theater.  
  
"'Diana…'" she breathes, her voice a raspy whisper. "'My… friend…'"   
  
Primrose cradles her head on her lap, looking appropriately sorrowful. "'I'm so sorry, Tatiana,'" she says. "'I couldn't save you like I promised when we were young.'"  
  
"'Oh… please… don't cry so for me,'" Ophilia continues. "'Save your tears for… someone special…'"  
  
Primrose bows her head until their foreheads touch, then brings it back up, gently touching Ophilia's cheek. "'I am,'" she says. "'You're the only thing left that's special to me, Tatiana. In this whole wretched town, amidst all we've done under General Minerva's iron fist, you are the one good thing to come out of it.'"  
  
She takes a shaky breath. "'But I failed you,'" she whispers. "'My hands were stained with innocent blood already, but to have yours join it renders my heart in two.'"  
  
Ophilia shivers. "'I'm so tired, Diana,'" she mumbles. She coughs with practiced pitifulness. "'Will you… stay with me? Will… will you be here… when I wake…?"  
  
Primrose swallows hard and rubs her eyes. "'Of course,'" she promises. "'Rest, Tatiana. And know that you are as dear to me as I am to you.'"   
  
Ophilia smiles, tears running down her cheeks— probably real ones, knowing Ophilia. "'Oh, good…'" she murmurs. She goes still and limp in Primrose's arms.   
  
Simeon stands, clapping his hands together. "Perfection," he breathes. "Fantastic! Bravo, both of you!" Scattered applause from the rest of the travelers scattered around the stage joins Simeon's.   
  
Ophilia sits up, rubbing her eyes. She smiles tearfully. "I didn't cry _nearly_ as much that time," she says to Primrose. "I really think I'm getting better!"  
  
Primrose chuckles. "See, told you," she says, nudging Ophilia gently. "Practice helps. I knew you'd get it."  
  
Ophilia beams, brightening up the entire theater. It is absolutely adorable.  
  
"So! A prime example of a well-done death scene," Simeon announces, standing up to address the group. "The subtle gestures are key— Diana touching Tatiana's face, Tatiana's smile as she goes— all of them add motion and life. And since most of your roles die, I hope all of you take this to heart."  
  
"Don't worry," Olberic says firmly. "I'll get very good at dying. I do not intend to leave this job half-done!"  
  
Simeon coughs. "Yes, of course. Sister Clement, wonderful improvement. I daresay you're a natural."  
  
Ophilia clasps her hands together in delight. "Thank you! Primrose is a very good teacher."  
  
Primrose waves a hand dismissively. "I just helped you get used to the scene, is all," she says. " _You_ did all the work."  
  
"Alright, all of you, back to practice," Simeon orders. "We only have four more weeks of rehearsal until opening night, and every moment counts!"  
  
Primrose picks up her script. "Should we try an earlier scene?" she asks Ophilia. "Now that you're not crying as much, we might be able to do that scene with General Minerva. I'm no H'aanit, but I can read the lines."  
  
Ophilia clears her throat, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. "I, um, yes, sure."  
  
Primrose chuckles. "Need a minute?"  
  
Ophilia nods. She sucks in a breath, rubs her hands over her face, and shakes out her head as if trying to knock away the emotion. "It's just such a sad role," she says. "I always get emotional during sad things. I cry every time Galdera begs for his life in the Thirteen Gods pageant."  
  
"Isn't Galdera the villain?" Primrose replies. "You know, betrayer of the gods, cast down into eternal slumber in hell, so on and so forth?"  
  
"Well, yes," Ophilia admits. "But you see what I mean? Every time, Lianna has to remind me it's just a play." She sniffles. "And it is. I'm glad for that."  
  
Primrose feels a twinge of some unpleasant emotion in her chest. "I suppose it _is_ just a role for you," she says slowly. "I'm glad for that, too. You can take off the costume and step off the stage and it's all over."  
  
Ophilia nods. "Tragedy really isn't my favorite genre, I don't think," she says. "People doing horrible things. I know nothing is perfect, but…"  
  
"It's just _pretend_ to you," Primrose says, feeling anger seethe through her words. "This role, this play— it's all just _pretend_. And isn't it _wonderful_ that you can be safe in the knowledge that it isn't your reality, Ophilia?"  
  
She frowns. "Primrose, is… is something wrong?"  
  
Primrose runs a hand through her bangs and forces herself to breathe. "No," she promises. "No, it's just— I _lived_ this. This _is_ my reality. Maybe I'm not— not under anyone's thumb anymore, but I have to live with the weight of what it did to me for the rest of my life. And I've met people who have to keep living this _role_ you're playing. I've known someone who lived it from the time she was born until the moment _I fucking watched her die."_  
  
Ophilia turns pale. "Primrose, I— I'm sorry, I-I didn't mean—"  
  
"I know you didn't," Primrose says tightly. She coughs, clenches her fist, steels herself. It's not Ophilia's fault. It's not her fault that Primrose sees who someone else could've been in everything Ophilia does.  
  
Primrose takes a breath. The anger cools to back-burner simmer. "Sorry, just— a moment of weakness. I didn't mean to take it out on you."  
  
Ophilia looks very small. "Of course," she says. "I, um. I promised I'd go through that one scene with H'aanit, so, um. We'll go back to this later, okay?"  
  
"Sure," Primrose says, rubbing the bridge of her nose. Ophilia skitters away. She doesn't go to H'aanit, but Primrose can't say she blames her. She glances around the rest of the stage. At least her slip-up wasn't extreme enough to catch anyone's attention.   
  
It doesn't matter anymore, she tells herself. Back to rehearsing.  
  


* * *

  
  
There are three and a half weeks until opening night. Alfyn lounges in a theater chair balancing on its back legs, thumbing through his script, muttering the narration to himself. He sighs in disgust and drops it onto the table next to him. Acting is boring when you're just the narrator. He turns his eyes towards the stage. Primrose steals the spotlight without even meaning to, and the fact that she's practicing a scene with Simeon— the one in act two, during the masquerade ball where Diana's chasing after the yet-unknown final murderer— just means that both of them shine like they're meant for the stage. They practice the lines with the dance steps, and they're both so good at it that it looks effortless, like they're figures in a music box slowly turning. Alfyn wants to gag.  
  
Therion plops onto the table next to him, pulling one leg up and letting the other dangle. "Hey," he says.   
  
Alfyn grunts in response, glowering at the stage.  
  
Therion quirks an eyebrow. "Wow, who pissed in _your_ cereal this morning?"  
  
"Okay, first of all, gross," Alfyn replies. "Second, nobody. A guy's not allowed to scowl sometimes?"  
  
"Oh, yeah, you're _allowed_ ," Therion presses, swinging one leg back and forth. "But it's not like you. Are you really _that_ bothered with Primrose's boy-toy?"  
  
Alfyn pouts moodily. "He's not her _boy-toy_ ," he grumbles. "You look at Primrose and tell me she'd waste her time stringing any man along without needing to for some other reason, friend or not. And besides that, she's, like… _smiling_. Like, genuinely. I think she's smiled more at her fuckin' _Shakespeare_ here in the past three weeks than she ever has with us. Something's up, and it's making my behind itch."  
  
"Your behind itches at _everything_ , but," Therion says. "Not the point. You think he's not trustworthy. That he's been lying this whole time."  
  
"Like a barn cat in the sunshine."  
  
Therion shrugs. "Maybe you're right," he says. "But Primrose seems to trust him."  
  
Alfyn sighs. "I think that's why I'm worried," he mutters. "Maybe he's a childhood friend, or whatever, but you of all people should know that people can be real good at lying. I hope I'm wrong. But if I'm not?" He sucks in a breath through his teeth. "Ain't gonna be pretty."  
  


* * *

  
  
The days tick by. Primrose and Simeon perfect the dance scene and earn the applause of the rest of those assembled. Lines are practiced, polished, perfected. Props are made, costumes stitched, sets painted. Scene by scene, rehearsing gets smoother until there's a perfect level of synchronicity that has Simeon clasping his hands together and tearing up with joy. Things are going well— so well, in fact, that the part of Primrose that hasn't left Sunshade wonders when it'll all go wrong.  
  
Simeon eases her worries. "Oh, don't worry about a thing, my dear," he promises. "Everything is going wonderfully. I have the utmost confidence in the stage crew. And have you heard the orchestra? They're absolutely magnificent."  
  
"I'm glad everything is shaping up," Primrose agrees. "I guess I'm just— I don't know. I feel like if I let myself get too comfortable, something's going to make me regret it."   
  
"I understand," Simeon nods. "And it's no wonder, with all you've been through. You've truly seen the worst the world has to offer."  
  
Primrose shrugs. "Well, that's life, I suppose."  
  
Simeon chuckles. "Indeed. Might I ask about your friends, Primrose?"  
  
Primrose frowns. "Sure, why?"  
  
"Well, I couldn't help but overhear your discussion with Sister Clement," he says. "And it strikes me as _quite_ odd that she'd say something like that to you..."  
  


* * *

  
  
"Hey, have you talked to Ophilia lately?" Tressa asks. "She's been really upset. Her heart's not in practicing her lines and it shows."  
  
Therion frowns. "That's not like her."  
  
"She keeps saying Primrose hates her," Tressa adds. "Which, I doubt that. But it's got me worried."  
  
"I'll ask her," Therion volunteers. "Don't want this to spin into something ridiculous."  
  


* * *

  
  
"No, it's true, I'm _sure_ she does," Ophilia mumbles dejectedly. "I _totally_ overstepped. Primrose _says_ it's not my fault she got so angry, but you know how she is."  
  
"I don't think she'd just leave it without telling you," Olberic says, gently patting her shoulder. "We're all adults here. We know how important it is to communicate."  
  
Ophilia sniffles. "You're right," she admits. "Oh, I'm sorry, ser Olberic. I'm just worried. What if… what if we're coming apart?"  
  


* * *

  
  
"Ah, it's most likely just a misunderstanding," Simeon tells her. "You all seem very close, after all. It doesn't seem likely that you would fall apart over something so small. I trust your judgement."  
  
"Traveling around Orsterra for almost a year will do that," Primrose agrees. She sighs. "Still, I don't know what to think. First you say you think they're trying to push us apart, and now this? It feels like I can't trust anyone."  
  
Simeon leans forward in sympathy. "Oh, my dear, don't think that," he says. "You can trust _me_."  
  
"I _want_ to, Simeon, really," Primrose sighs, running a hand through her bangs. "But I don't know. Maybe Therion's right. Can we really just pick up right where we left off?"  
  
"I fail to see why not," Simeon replies. "True, all you had of me before this was in memories, and memories can be notoriously faulty…"  
  
"Mine's not great these days in the first place," Primrose chuckles abashedly. "A few knocks on the head will do that to you, I suppose."  
  
"Well, you have my word," Simeon promises. "I don't think any less of you for what you've been through. You're still a dear friend to me. I treasure your friendship more than all the gold and jewels in the world."  
  
Primrose rolls her eyes, but she cracks a smile. "You're ridiculous."  
  
"Though," Simeon wonders. "Perhaps it's… oh, never mind, it's a foolish thought."  
  
Primrose frowns. "What is?"  
  
Simeon sighs. "Well, you know you've been through quite a lot, my dear. Presumably, they know that, too."  
  
"What are you getting at, Simeon?"  
  
"Perhaps," he says. "Because of that, you're simply too different from them."  
  


* * *

  
  
"Hm?" Cyrus looks up from the notes in his script. "I haven't noticed anything odd. Whatever do you mean?"  
  
"Alfyn thinks it's Simeon," Therion says. "I don't trust the guy myself, but I mean, like him, I hope it's just me. I don't want to pull Primrose away from one thing that's genuinely making her happy just because it makes my ass itch. Uh, figuratively."  
  
"You know I'm very likely not the best source to ask," Cyrus replies. "But it is good to look around from all angles to form one's own opinion of a situation. Very scientific. Perhaps I'll investigate myself."  
  
Therion grimaces. "I, uh… don't think that's a good idea," he says. "If he catches on, then we could've fucked ourselves up before we even know what's going on. And if he is up to something bad that he's fooled Primrose about, then we could just be making it get here faster."  
  


* * *

  
  
Primrose snorts. "You're reading too far into things," she says. "Simeon and have been friends for ages. Is it wrong I missed him and want to catch up?"  
  
"Well, not at all," Cyrus admits. "But there is a _possibility_ that—"  
  
"Oh, save it," Primrose cuts him off, rolling her eyes. "What's your problem with Simeon, anyway? Four weeks ago, _you_ said he didn't seem suspicious at all."  
  
"I—" Cyrus falters. He pauses and scratches his chin. "Therion may have mentioned something, and I thought it wise to investigate further."  
  
Primrose frowns. "Therion did? Well, I'd figure _Therion_ wouldn't trust Simeon right away, but I thought he trusted _me_. I thought we were on the same wavelength."  
  


* * *

  
  
"What? Instead of _talking_ to you?" Simeon repeats, aghast. "That seems very rude, to go behind your back like that. Certainly not something a good friend would do."  
  
"I know," Primrose agrees. "I'm kind of hurt. I'm finally catching a break for once, seeing you again, and it feels like they're trying to pull us apart, like you said weeks ago."  
  
Simeon hums. "They just don't seem to understand you," he says. "They don't seem to _appreciate_ you."  
  


* * *

  
  
"Ah, Sister Clement," Simeon calls. "You seem to be improving quite a bit."   
  
Ophilia smiles a little. "You think so? I've been practicing."  
  
"Oh, indeed," Simeon nods empathetically. "Though, I can't help but notice— I would think you'd want to practice that particular scene with Primrose. Have you asked?"  
  
Ophilia's smile falters. "Well, um," she says. "I don't want to bother her."  
  
Simeon nods. "That's thoughtful of you," he says. "She's still _quite_ upset. Not at you, of course, she was very clear when she told me about what happened two weeks ago. But, you know, what you said…" he shrugs.   
  
"Oh," Ophilia says, her voice very small. "W-well, um. I-if she's still upset, th-then I respect her need for space."   
  
"That's a good thing to do," Simeon agrees. "Wouldn't want to aggravate an already-precarious situation. But, that's neither here nor there, Sister Clement. I wager that if you ask Mr. Greengrass, he'd be glad to read for Diana."  
  
Ophilia nods, biting at her lip. "I'll do that," she says. "The show must go on, and all."  
  


* * *

  
  
Dress rehearsals begin the week before opening night, and that's when it comes time to bite the bullet and deal with the formalwear. When it's finally ready and Olberic picks it up from the tailor's, Primrose figures that it's best to strike while the iron is hot.  
  
Cyrus, surprisingly, knows more about what to wear to a gala than Primrose would've thought, but Primrose is still the authority among the group of them. It's easy for the boys— clean, tailored trousers, formal boots, some kind of fitted jacket or vest, shirts with a variable amount of ruffle, and maybe some kind of bow to tie off the collar. Cyrus goes with a cravat, and Primrose can't say she's surprised. This is essentially how Cyrus dresses from day to day.   
  
Primrose herself, obviously, can find a dress that flatters her (snug bodice, low neckline, skirts with volume, and, obviously, in red) and call it a day, but the others are a little more complicated.   
  
Tressa frowns at her reflection in the mirror. "Yeah, alright, it's _pretty_ ," she admits. "But I'm not sold. I'm already wearing a dress for the play, and Simeon told me I can't wear shorts under the costume 'cuz it'd ruin the silhouette or something."  
  
"Well, he does have a point," Primrose admits. "You don't like the skirt?"  
  
"Skirts on their own just aren't my thing," Tressa shrugs. "See, I liked to run and play rough when I was a kid, and having a skirt that can fly up if you get tackled is kind of embarrassing. My mom figured, instead of making me stop running around, that I could just wear shorts underneath and solve the problem. Guess I'm just used to it."  
  
Primrose hums, adjusting the neckline on Tressa's dress. "I can understand that," she says.  
  
Tressa sighs. "The guys have it _so_ much easier. Jacket, pants, tie, done. And they don't have to worry about those fuckin' _heels_." She glances disdainfully at the discarded shoes banished to a hatbox to be dealt with later.   
  
Primrose pauses. "You know, that can be arranged," she says. "You're about Therion's size, right? I can talk to the tailor and get something made pretty quickly."  
  
Tressa's face lights up. "I can _do_ that?"  
  
"Why not?" Primrose shrugs. "It's 1619. You can dress however you want."   
  
"Oh, Tressa, you'd look so _dashing_ ," Ophilia chimes in, looking up from her script. "Just like a prince from a fairy tale!" Getting Ophilia's dress in order was easy, too— essentially the same as Primrose's, but in white and with a higher neckline. She could go in her habit if she wanted to, since it counts as formalwear, but she'd looked so longingly at all the pretty dresses that Primrose convinced her that Aelfric wouldn't mind if she were out of uniform for one evening.   
  
Tressa preens. "Boy, now I _really_ wish my parents were here, not just to see me act, but so I can see my dad's face when he sees me in menswear. What's adolescence without giving your folks a heart attack at least once, right?"  
  
Ophilia nods. "When we were sixteen, Lianna cut her hair really short," she says. She giggles. "I thought the Archbishop would faint then and there, he turned so pale!"   
  
"Oh, what, so _you_ didn't get up to any wild escapades yourself in your misbegotten youth?" Tressa asks. "No sudden haircuts or starting a garage bard caravan with your friends?"  
  
"Um, well," Ophilia thinks. "Oh! Well, one time, when I was seventeen, I… told a _lie_." She ducks her head. "I told His Excellency that I was going out to buy more candles for the service because we were running low, and I _did_ do that, but the real reason is… a boy invited me to go ice skating with him." She buries her face in her hands. "He was nice and had a sweet smile and he was _tall_ , you know I like tall boys, but I felt _so_ awful for lying like that that I immediately confessed everything to Lianna and I was _so_ sure she'd disown me! It was terrible."   
  
Primrose quirks an eyebrow. "I gather that she didn't?"  
  
Ophilia purses her lips. "Well, no. Um, actually, she laughed. A lot. But she did promise me she wouldn't tell her father, and she hasn't. Anyway, that was when I decided that lying felt horrible and I didn't want to do it, no matter _how_ tall the boy was."  
  
Tressa looks like she's trying very hard not to laugh. "Understandable," she manages. "You did the right thing, Ophilia. Tall boys just aren't worth it."  
  
Prirmose smiles, mildly amused. It's kind of cute hearing stories from the other travelers' home lives. Most of the time they're nice stories. (Herself and Therion are likely the exceptions.)   
  
"I bet _Primrose_ has stories to tell," Tressa says. "So, do you?"  
  
Primrose shakes her head. "None that I can remember. Well," she admits. "None that I can both remember and that wouldn't make Ophilia cry."   
  
"What? None at all?" Tressa repeats.   
  
"Well, no." Primrose shrugs. "I don't have a very good memory. There's some things that stick out, but most of it is just fuzz. And, really, even if I could remember, it's probably nothing either of you want to hear."  
  
That changes the atmosphere in the room quite a bit. Primrose regrets not just saying no and leaving it at that.  
  
Someone hurries over from the other room, starts to open the door, stops, closes it, and then knocks. "It's me," Alfyn says from the other side. "Y'all decent?"  
  
"Yeah," Primrose calls back. The gloom hanging in the air evaporates. "What's wrong?"  
  
Alfyn opens the door, his shirt collar unlaced and his tie undone around his neck. "Primroooose," he whines. "Cyrus is gonna make me _shave!"_  
  
Primrose tries very hard not to laugh. "He's right," she says. "Unless you can grow a full beard in a week, you're going to have to shave off that fuzz on your chin."  
  
"But—" Alfyn protests. "But it's _mine!_ I _grew_ it!"  
  
She pats his shoulder. "You have all my sympathies. Did he tell you you'll need to comb your hair, too?"  
  
Alfyn looks dismayed. _"What?"_  
  
"Oh, come on, Medicine Man, it'll grow back," Therion says, poking his head in. "If it makes you feel any better, he's not gonna make you shave until right before the party."  
  
"Hi, Therion!" Tressa says. "Guess what, Primrose says I can wear pants like you!"  
  
"Oh, nice," Therion replies appreciatively. "If you don't want the dress, I'll wear it."  
  
"I'm not sure," Primrose hums. "You could fit a lot of knives under here."  
  
"Uh, _yeah_ , why do you think I'm suggesting it?"  
  
"Oh!" Tressa realizes. "You think I could fit my crossbow under it?"  
  
"Not without someone noticing," Primrose replies. "Sorry, Tressa."  
  
Tressa pouts. "Aw."  
  
"I think Simeon said there are no weapons allowed in the guild hall during events anyway," Ophilia says. "Too dangerous, in case someone mixes them up with the props."  
  
Things between Primrose and Ophilia are… well, they're still _talking_ , that much is fine. But there's a big-ass elephant in the room, still unresolved from three weeks ago. Ophilia's been noticeably restrained and hesitant around Primrose, and she insists that she forgives Primrose for scaring her, back then, but Primrose isn't sure.  
  
It's really not right of her to take it out on Ophilia. But there's something that makes Primrose's gut twist about how she'd twirled happily in the mirror, watching her skirts sway, saying she felt like a princess. Primrose tastes blood in the back of her mouth. It feels vicious, like fate giving her a cruel reminder of promises she made in a dingy Sunshade alleyway when it's already made her watch as they fell and shattered on the ground, scattering blood on the burning sand.  
  
Primrose doesn't hate Ophilia. But she does look at her and see a girl who's never needed to sleep with a knife under her pillow— someone who's seen the worst in people and come out stronger for it, someone who's pushed through adversity and kept her faith intact. Part of her is glad— constant vigilance is exhausting, and Primrose would never wish it upon anyone. But another part of her sees the girl Yusufa dreamed of being; sees memories of Yusufa tying a moth-eaten curtain around her waist and pretending it's a ballgown every time she sees Ophilia twirling in the mirror. She sees what Yusufa could've been— what Primrose could've _given_ her— in Ophilia's every smile, every giggle, every excited skip in her step, and it hurts, poking at a wound that will never heal. It feels horribly unfair that Primrose has to watch someone else live out the happiness that Yusufa deserved and that Primrose failed to give. There is a terrible, spiteful part of her that resents Ophilia for it, that harbors anger and bitterness, but Primrose doesn't _hate_ her.  
  
The fact is that Primrose promised Yusufa that, one day, they'd go back to Noblecourt together and Yusufa would be the beautiful, elegant lady that she deserved to be. But she'd failed, and Yusufa was gone, and this was the divine punishment that Primrose had to live with.   
  
Primrose shakes her head. There are more important things than her penance. "Alright, boys, out you go," she says. "Hurry up and get changed. We've got rehearsal."  
  
Tressa sighs, straining to reach the tiny buttons on the back of her dress. "Man, I hope this play is worth it," she says. "I'll be hearing Simeon's director voice in my head for the rest of my life. _Project. Enunciate. Gesture_. Simeon says eat my ass." She makes a face.  
  
Primrose chuckles despite herself, helping Tressa with the buttons. "He's a bit of a perfectionist when it comes to his creative visions," she admits. "But this is the first time one of his plays has gotten all the way to opening night. He's excited."  
  
Tressa rolls her eyes. _"Thespians."_  
  


* * *

  
  
"Now," Simeon hums, looking over his notes in the script. "Primrose, have we done the ending scene in costume yet?"  
  
Primrose frowns. "Oh, no, I don't think we have," she realizes. "Let's go through it, just in case. The ending is a key part of the show, and all."  
  
Simeon nods. "Of course, of course. Mr. Greengrass, would you hold the script for us? Even accomplished actors can make mistakes, you know."  
  
Alfyn squints, but nods and takes the script. "Yeah, sure," he says. "Where are we starting?"  
  
"Right here, at the back," Primrose says. "The very end."  
  
"Oh, yeah," Alfyn remembers. "You've got the dummy knife?"  
  
Simeon holds it up and pushes on the blunted edge of the slender blade, which slides down into the hilt with ease. "Naturally."   
  
Alfyn nods, pulling up a folding chair and sitting in it backwards. "Alright, go from 'Pierre, how I missed you.'"   
  
"'Oh, Pierre, how I missed you,'" Primrose says, throwing herself into Simeon's arms. "'We were apart for too many long years.'"  
  
"'I'm here now,'" Simeon promises. "'And we'll never be separated again, my love.'"  
  
Primrose pushes herself back. "'Love? But how can you say that to me now that you've seen the things I've done? The places I've been?'"  
  
"'Vengeance is not pretty,'" Simeon admits. "'But you are still Diana, my oldest and dearest friend, and I would never give that up. Not if you offered me the world.'"  
  
"'You're still as charming as ever,'" Primrose chuckles. "'And it… it's strange. You know, Pierre, I've felt, somehow, as if you were with me, through every blood-drenched step I took. Do you suppose it's fate, or something of the sort?'"  
  
Simeon shrugs. "'Only the gods know,'" he says. "'And I may not be a god, my dear Diana, only but a man, but I cannot help but see it as divine providence that the whims of fate should return you to me.'"  
  
Primrose smiles. "'It _is_ nice to see it that way, isn't it?'" she says. She pulls away, her smile dropping. "'But I'm not done yet. There's still one more man I have to track down. Julius, General Ezekiel— those two were but preludes for the main event, for when I find and kill the foulest monster of them all.'"  
  
She slowly walks further towards the front of the stage. "'You must know, Pierre, that you never left my mind, not once,'" she says, looking towards the audience. Simeon slowly paces around the background. "'All that time I spent away from home, all the horrible things I've seen and done— I pushed through all of it not _just_ to avenge my father, but so I would one day return to you.'"  
  
Simeon nods. It's quiet for a long time, save for his bootsteps on the stage. "'You must know something, too, Diana,'" he says. "'The truth is… I've been keeping a horrible secret from you. A secret that I know you can never forgive me for.'"  
  
Primrose frowns. "'What could _possibly_ be so heinous that I couldn't forgive you, Pierre?'" she says. "'You know I trust you more than any other.'"  
  
"'I _do_ know,'" Simeon agrees. He turns to face stage left, towards Primrose. "'Diana, would you come face me? I feel I must tell you this without turning away.'"  
  
Primrose turns. "'Will you tell me now, Pierre?'" she asks. "'Will you tell me what horrible secret you've been keeping from me, that you're sure I will never forgive you for?'"  
  
Simeon smiles with no warmth. "'Your wish is my command, my dear,'" he says. Slowly, he leans in, a hand on Primrose's waist, his mouth by her ear as if to whisper a secret—   
  
—and then he jabs the knife into her stomach.  
  
Primrose gasps and staggers back, clutching the knife. "'P… Pierre…'" she chokes out. "'Wh… why…'"  
  
"'Because, my _darling_ Diana,'" he says. "'This whole time, I've kept from you the identity of your father's final killer. You never once suspected a thing.'"  
  
Primrose gulps in a shaky breath. "'Y-you…'" she gasps. "'It was…'"   
  
She falls to her knees, then down, catching herself on one hand. She coughs, trying to breathe through the imaginary blood in her mouth. She falls down onto her elbows, claws at the ground as if scrabbling for a grip on life, twists onto her side— then she shudders, and goes still. And all the while, Simeon watches with a smile on his face.   
  
"'Rest now, my love,'" he says. Then he stands, facing the front. "'And so ends another tragedy. Let it be known that her death was poetry in motion, a beautiful end to a beautiful life— all the more lovely for how it shatters.'" He bows, low and deep, probably imagining applause.  
  
Alfyn sucks in a breath. "Well, damn, buddy, you really had me going there for a while," he chuckles. "Primrose, you alright?"  
  
Primrose sits up, holding the prop knife. "That went better than I thought it would," she says. "I must be getting better at dying."  
  
Simeon chuckles. "Well, death scenes in and of themselves are a skill to be honed," he says. "But, Mr. Greengrass, _do_ try not to gape too much at the play. You are still the narrator."  
  
Alfyn gives him a very-obviously-fake smile. "Sure, Director. Whatever you say."  
  
"You'll do great," Primrose promises. "It's just talking. You're good at that."  
  
"Aw, you think so?" Alfyn chuckles humbly. "Shucks, Primrose."  
  
Simeon glances between them, and something in his mind clicks.  
  


* * *

  
  
"Hey," Alfyn says. "Director."  
  
Simeon turns. "Ah, Mr. Greengrass. What can I do for you?"  
  
Alfyn shrugs, leaning against the hall paneling. "Just wanted to talk. We haven't really gotten to in all this time, y'know? But Primrose says you're a good guy, so I figure I should get to know you. Friends of friends, and all that."  
  
Simeon nods, admittedly a little perplexed. "Now, _I_ was under the impression that you didn't _like_ me, Mr. Greengrass," he says. "Primrose has told me as much."  
  
"Ah, ancient history," Alfyn says, waving a hand. "Wasn't fair of me to make a snap judgement like that. And, really, I oughta know better. So," he decides, sticking his hand out. "Truce?"  
  
Simeon looks from Alfyn to his outstretched hand, but slowly reaches out and shakes it, meeting Alfyn's eyes. He grins brightly, but there's an intensity in his eyes that makes his smile look more like a predator baring its teeth in warning.   
  
"Truce," Simeon agrees. "Well, if that's all, I have a meeting with Mr. Vaughan."  
  
"Oh, yeah, don't let me keep you," Alfyn nods. "Important directorial business. I getcha. Well, I'll see ya 'round, then."   
  
Simeon nods politely. He turns and leaves. Out of the corner of his eye, Alfyn catches sight of something on the back of Simeon's neck, poking out above his collar— a dark smudge, like a tattoo.  
  
"Hey, Director," he calls. Simeon stops and turns around, raising an eyebrow.  
  
Alfyn nods to him. "Don't work too hard, y'hear?"  
  
Simeon smiles icily. "Of course," he says. "Good day, Mr. Greengrass."  
  


* * *

  
  
Backstage, Linde growls. H'aanit glances to her, midway through adjusting the buttons on her costume.  
  
"Thou seemest ill at ease, Linde," H'aanit says. "For what reason is thou concerned?"  
  
Linde huffs, glaring at the director's office and plopping her head back down, her tail tapping irritably against the floor.   
  
H'aanit nods. "Aye," she says. "I must concureth. 'Tis, indeed, something afoot."  
  


* * *

  
  
"I don't know why it's bothering me so much," Primrose mutters. "And, really, I shouldn't be so bothered _now_ , of all times. Opening night's in less than a week."  
  
"Ah, you're right," Simeon agrees. "The most important thing now is to focus on the show. We can't rest our laurels now, just because everything has gone well so far. I would encourage your friends to do the same— rather than bothering you with trying to pull us apart."  
  
"I still can't believe they'd try to do that," Primrose shakes her head. "I mean, don't they trust me?"  
  
"I know I do," Simeon promises. "Clearly, they don't understand you like I do. The differences are simply too great.  
  
"Now, far be it from me to gossip, but," he says. "Your friend Alfyn and I had a few words the other day. He was civil enough, but I could tell he didn't _really_ trust me. His apologies for judging me too harshly felt so… insincere." Simeon shakes his head. "Do these people _truly_ have your best interests at heart, Primrose?"  
  


* * *

  
  
"Hey."  
  
"Wh— Therion?" Alfyn sputters. "Gods, man, don't sneak up on me like that! I coulda taken your head clean off!"  
  
"Well, if that's how I go, that's how I go. But listen," Therion insists. "We have to kill Simeon."  
  
Alfyn blinks. "Come again?"  
  
"We _. Have._ To _kill_ him," Therion repeats, grabbing Alfyn's shirt collar and yanking him into whispering range. "I heard him talking to Primrose. He was goin' on and on about how he's the only one who _understands_ her and all that bullshit. _He_ sounds like he's trying to convince her that _we're_ trying to drive them apart because _we_ don't trust _her_ to look out for her _own_ best interests."   
  
"Ha! I fuckin' knew it!" Alfyn whispers. "I mean, this is real bad, 'cuz I didn't wanna be right, but I'm just sayin' I called that shit six weeks ago."  
  
"Asshole sounds like Darius fucked a grammar textbook," Therion mutters. "Well, don't just gloat! Help me think up a plan to bring in this shitstain's last curtain call!"  
  
"Right, right, okay." Alfyn hesitates. "Are you sure we shouldn't tell Primrose?"  
  
"She's not gonna believe us," Therion replies. "If I know _anything_ about his type, he's got her right where he wants her, and that's where she believes he's the only one she can trust."  
  
"So," Alfyn says. "We're gonna kill him."  
  
"We are."  
  
"Should we tell H'aanit?" Alfyn suggests. "I mean, Linde's hated him this whole time, and H'aanit prolly trusts her judgement even more than ours."  
  
"Ooh," Therion realizes. "Now _that's_ a good idea. So, we get Kitty, we tell her the plan, her giant lion friend rips his throat out. Done and done."  
  
Alfyn sighs. "Man," he mutters. "I _hate_ bein' right."  
  


* * *

  
  
Alfyn glares at his reflection in a nearby mirror. "I look like an _idiot_ ," he grumbles, reaching up and rubbing at his baby-smooth cheeks. "I could deal with the monkey suit if Cyrus didn't insist on combing my hair."   
  
"Stand still," Primrose mutters, tying the bow tie around Alfyn's neck. "Come on, Alfyn, you're a Noblecourt actor now. You at least need your tie done up before the guests start to arrive."   
  
" _Nnnnuuuughhh_ ," Alfyn whines pitifully. "Oh, come _on!"_  
  
Tressa snorts, her hands in the pockets of her vest. "If you're pissy about this, I hate to see how you deal with your wedding." Tressa looks good in formal trousers, and she absolutely knows it. She'd gone with yellow— bright, youthful, and perfectly suited to her. Primrose had often noticed that the eight of them seemed to be color-coded, and tonight is no exception, as Alfyn's in green, Therion's in purple (he'd decided not to wear the dress in the end, because the hidden knife wouldn't fit under the sleeve), Olberic's in blue, Ophilia's in white, and Cyrus is in black. It's some flavor of weird coincidence, probably, but it certainly makes them distinctive.  
  
"My dream wedding is under a tree in Clearbrook," Alfyn grumbles. "No dress code if _I_ can help it."  
  
"It's just for one evening," Primrose chides, smoothing out his collar. "You've faced down raging bears, giant salamanders, and killer goats and lived to tell the tale. I'm _sure_ you can handle wearing a tie for one night."  
  
Alfyn grumbles admittance. "Still don't like it," he mutters. "How does teach even do this all the time? I can't fuckin' breathe in this tie."  
  
"I," Cyrus says proudly, appearing in the doorway. "Take _great_ pride in looking my best."   
  
He certainly does look good. Like Alfyn, he's essentially wearing what he wears every day, but in nicer material, with shinier buttons, crisper folds, and a fluffier cravat. His attitude is what makes the look— well, that, and the fact that Olberic's equally well-dressed and next to him. Everyone knows that two cravats are classier than one.  
  
Primrose nods approvingly. "You definitely succeed," she says. "You must be a hit at all those university balls."  
  
"Well, I must represent my department with pride and decorum," Cyrus says modestly, clearly preening. "Academia is a place where one must demonstrate some degree of care and effort, qualities which are best exhibited by how one dresses."   
  
"Wow," Tressa says appreciatively. "My teacher wore his pajamas to school every day."  
  
Cyrus's smile falters. "Ah," he says.  
  
Primrose looks around. "Where's Therion? I _did_ warn him he'd have to comb his hair."  
  
"Found him," Tressa says, nudging the space behind a support pillar.  
  
Therion grumbles, emerging from the shadows. "Nobody likes a snitch."  
  
Cyrus produces a comb. "Alright, stand still," he says. Therion grimaces. Cyrus starts to run the comb through his hair. He lets it stay draped over one eye, but shows no mercy on Therion's many tangles and cowlicks. Therion, lacking his signature cloak, digs his chin into the collar of his vest and glares at the wall.   
  
Ophilia hurries up the hall, holding her skirt out of the way. "The guests are arriving," she says. "Where's H'aanit? Simeon told me we should all be in one place. Presenting a united front, or… something."  
  
H'aanit grunts from the other end of the hall. At least to Primrose, the way H'aanit looks puts everyone else to shame. Like Tressa, she'd opted for pants, but Tressa's overall look was far younger, in general, than H'aanit's. She'd gone for a dark gray, which suited her more than Primrose would've thought, a coat with long tails, an open collar, and, most strikingly, a matching cape over one shoulder. It's a look that not everyone can pull off, but H'aanit does it and does it well. She doesn't just look good, she looks _gallant_. She wouldn't be out of place on the cover of a romance novel. Having a giant snow leopard at her side only adds to the look.  
  
Tressa whistles. "Boy, _someone_ sure cleans up nice."  
  
H'aanit takes her place with the rest of the group. She clears her throat and adjusts her collar, a faint blush dusting her cheeks. "Yes, well," she mutters. "Letten us proceedeth. Thou willst see me the whole eve."  
  
Therion nudges Ophilia, who still hasn't moved her eyes from H'aanit. Ophilia coughs, tugs at the sleeves of her gown, and fidgets with the clips in her hair. She's blushing furiously, and Primrose can't really blame her.   
  
Simeon walks through, adjusting his cravat. "Yes, yes, good, we're all ready, even the cat. Excellent. This bodes well. Provided all of you are on your absolute best behavior, of course—" he tugs the folds out of his jacket and turns to face the doors as the clock strikes five— "I think everything will go exactly according to plan."  
  


* * *

  
  
Everything is, for once, going exactly according to plan.  
  
The guild hall is magnificent, every bit of it showing that this is a Big Event. Primrose spots at least one member of every important house in Noblecourt, most of whom she recognizes, and none of whom recognize her. Really, the only person she doesn't recognize is the Lord Corvid, which makes sense. The only reason she can pick him out from the crowd is because he looks more like a veteran soldier than a governor. Ideally, she'd swing by and talk to him a little bit, but, as expected, he's surrounded by nobles trying to make a good impression on the guy in charge. Maybe during the intermission.   
  
Everyone else, including Simeon, is occupied, scattered across the theater and being on their best behavior, which sometimes means mingling and answering questions like an actor would and sometimes means lurking in a corner and taking a drink of their wine whenever anyone tries to address them. It works out for Primrose because she can focus on tailing Mr. Vaughan— which is the whole reason she's here in the first place.   
  
The first thing she learns is that Mr. Vaughan has a wholehearted, deep-seated love for theater and drama, especially in a city as rich in creative history as Noblecourt. The second thing she learns is that there is _absolutely nothing else_ to his personality.  
  
As a consequence, nearly the entire hour before she's supposed to be backstage, she's eavesdropping on Mr. Vaughan describe ad nauseum how much he's devoted himself to the theater. Every minute that ticks by adds to her irritation, and the doubt that Mr. Vaughan is the one she's after. No man _this_ gleefully one-dimensional could've been responsible for killing her father— but even so, she's tempted to add him to her list just to spare the rest of the city from having to hear his spiel one more time.   
  
"Wine, my lady?" a waiter asks at five-thirty. Primrose sighs, her concentration broken. Though, it's not like Mr. Vaughan was saying anything particularly interesting.  
  
"No, thank you, I don't drink," she says without thinking. Then she looks at the waiter, and then double-takes, blinking in surprise. "Revello?"  
  
Revello grins conspiratorially from under his mustache, holding a finger to his lips like he would when she was seven and he'd sneak her candies when her father wasn't looking. "I found a way in. Don't tell anyone."  
  
"My lips are sealed," Primrose promises. "Can I ask how?"  
  
"Stroke of luck, really," Revello admits. "One of the Lord Corvid's maids used to work for Geoffrey, and upon hearing about you, she somehow managed to convince a waiter to back out at short notice and let me fill in."  
  
"One of the maids?" Primrose repeats.   
  
"Yes, something about returning a favor," Revello recalls. "Arianna, she told me her name was. Do you remember her?"  
  
Primrose almost wants to laugh. "I ran into Arianna in Stillsnow," she says. "She was working for the Left Crow. I mean, at least until _I_ got to him."   
  
Revello looks impressed. "Hm, imagine that. What are the odds?"  
  
"Here's hoping the rest of the night doesn't hinge on freaky coincidences," Primrose mutters. "Do _you_ know anything about Mr. Vaughan, Revello? Because all I know is that he thinks being an actor is a personality trait."  
  
"Mm, unfortunately, I haven't heard much of anything on Mr. Vaughan," Revello admits. "Except for the fact that he's the guildmaster of the Actor's Guild, but everyone knows that. His name isn't important enough to be of note."  
  
Primrose hums, looking over at Mr. Vaughan, currently blissfully giving his speech to Cyrus and Olberic, who both look like they would really rather be anywhere else, but like, they're polite about it. It's hard for her to believe that _this_ is one of the men who killed her father.  
  
"Keep me updated on anything you think I may need to hear," Primrose says. "Any of the other actors can get word to me if you tell them I sent you. Except Simeon— Simeon can't know."  
  
Revello nods. "Of course, my lady. Oh, and before I forget."  
  
Prirmose raises an eyebrow. "What?"  
  
He nods to the stage. "Break a leg, as they say."  
  


* * *

  
  
As much as Primrose would've liked, no new information comes to her in the following twenty minutes— only more irritation at Mr. Vaughan for wasting her time. At about ten before six, according to the nearest clock, she watches the orchestra get settled in the pit in front of the stage and someone catches her arm. She reflexively goes for her knife and then stops when she realizes it's Simeon.  
  
She sighs. "You startled me. Do you _know_ how close you just came to getting a knife in the throat?"  
  
Simeon puts his hands up. "Apologies, my dear," he says. "But we're getting close to the start. I thought you ought to meet the Lord Corvid personally, since he's part of the reason the show is going on at all."  
  
Now isn't that a pleasant surprise? Primrose stops herself from saying so. Simeon doesn't need to know that she's trying to kill the other part of the reason his show is going on. "That sounds lovely," she says instead. "I'd love to meet him."  
  
The Lord Corvid looks like he's very tired of standing in the same spot for the past hour. He has two retainers in silver-trimmed black within five feet, and Prirmose has spotted still more speckled throughout the guild hall. Figures, given how important he is and how big a deal it is for him to make a public appearance. Still, he gives Primrose a polite smile. He's tall and broad, and has a full head of dark hair and a thick beard to match.   
  
"You would be the lead actress," Lord Corvid says. His voice sounds hoarse and gravelly, like something nicked his voicebox and he got astronomically lucky. "Lord Simeon has spoken quite highly of you."   
  
Primrose bobs respectfully, as you're supposed to do. "It's an honor to meet you, Lord Corvid," she says. She chuckles modestly. "Simeon flatters me, but I do hope I can live up to his praise."   
  
"I have every confidence in you, my dear," Simeon promises. "Lady Primrose is actually an old friend, and the inspiration for a great many of my poems."  
  
Lord Corvid chuckles. "Ah, all artists need a muse," he says. "But knowing _you_ , Lord Simeon, I highly doubt your show will disappoint."  
  
"Well, we can hope," Simeon agrees. "Oh, I never got to ask— how _are_ you finding the party so far? I know how much work you and Mr. Vaughan put in to organizing it."  
  
Lord Corvid hums. "Oh, certainly, it's been lovely to see that nearly everyone invited has made an appearance," he admits. "It's just a shame that not everyone could."  
  
"Ah, yes," Mr. Vaughn chimes in— or has he been standing there the whole time and Primrose had just tuned him out? "That friend of yours failed to RSVP, didn't he? What was his name? Rudolph?"   
  
_Rufus_. Primrose's heart beats loud in her ears. It takes everything she has not to look visibly surprised. "Perhaps his invitation simply got lost," she suggests. "The postal system isn't perfect, as we all know."  
  
"Ah, true," Mr. Vaughan agrees. "Getting mail all the way to Stillsnow is no easy task."  
  
Lord Corvid hums, his eyes narrowing just a bit at Mr. Vaughan. He says nothing.   
  
"I might've met the man you're talking about," Primrose says, convincingly pretending to just remember it. "Rufus, I believe. Lovely man."  
  
Something in the air changes. Mr. Vaughan does not react, if he notices anything at all, but Lord Corvid's eyes snap over to Primrose. _Rufus_. _Stillsnow_. It can't be a coincidence— even if it is, she can't just let it slip by. Not when she still has a chance to do what she set out to do.   
  
Simeon glances at the clock. "Ah, nearly six," he notes. "The show's about to begin. Come along, my dear, we can't keep the audience waiting."   
  
Primrose nods obligingly, not breaking eye contact with Lord Corvid. "Of course," she agrees. "The show must go on."  
  
Lord Corvid raises his wine glass to them. "Break a leg, then."  
  


* * *

  
  
The theater lights are down, casting the audience in shadow while the lights on the stage blaze ever onwards. Simeon steps out onto the stage while the curtain is still closed to briefly address the audience. Primrose and the rest of the team are gathered backstage, all in costume, waiting for the cue to begin.  
  
"Hey, here's something I've been wondering," Tressa says. "Everyone's been telling me to break a leg up on stage. Why _is_ that a thing people say?"  
  
"It's bad luck to wish an actor good luck," Therion replies. "Actors are superstitious. They think saying 'good luck' will jinx it."  
  
Tressa snorts. "Weird."  
  
"I dunno, I can kinda see where they're comin' from," Alfyn admits. "Things never _totally_ go the way you plan, so if you wish for something opposite to happen, it's more likely it'll go the other way. Like reverse psychology, but on the whims of the universe."  
  
"I wouldn't underestimate superstition," Cyrus adds. "A placebo effect can be quite a powerful thing. I've read numerous studies pondering the science behind this fact." He pauses. "Of course, that's the extent of my knowledge on the topic. Philosophy never was my greatest strength."  
  
"Shh!" Ophilia hisses. "The show's about to start!"  
  
The curtain opens. The show must go on.  
  


* * *

  
  
Alfyn clears his throat. "'Our story begins some years ago in the fair city of Kingsyard, a flourishing merchant town nestled in the pristine hills. The people are healthy, happy, and safe, and it's all due to the efforts of its Lord William Whitmore, a kind and noble man.'"  
  
Cyrus gestures grandly out to the crowd. "'As the lord of this fine city, a happier man I could not be,'" he says. "'Truly, Kingsyard is the pride of our country, and so I look upon it with satisfaction and with contentment.'"  
  
Alfyn turns the page in the book he's holding. "'Of course, Lord Whitmore doesn't work alone. He has trustworthy friends, skilled advisors, and professional business partners. And at the end of the day, he has his loving wife, Lady Silvia Whitmore, and his beautiful daughter, Diana…'"  
  


* * *

  
  
"I don't think you _quite_ understand what stage kiss means, Professor Albright," Simeon sighs, rubbing his temples. "It's not a _real_ kiss. There's no reason to shy away like that."  
  
"Well, it— I—" Cyrus tries. "I just can't _make_ myself do that to Primrose. It just doesn't feel right."  
  
Simeon throws up his hands in surrender. "Ridiculous!"  
  
"Aw, Cyrus, don't worry about me," Primrose promises. "I've gotten _many_ kisses from _many_ men that I like _far_ less than you. I don't mind if you kiss my cheek for a play."  
  
Cyrus sighs. "That's exactly why I hesitate."  
  
"Well, it's a good thing you won't have to anymore," Olberic comments. "Considering that you die in the next scene."  
  


* * *

  
  
"'… It's father! He's been murdered!'" Tressa gasps from center stage. "'Three stab wounds, right to his gut! I didn't see the faces of the men who did it, but I know, deep in my soul, that if I'm to return home, I have to kill them back. Good thing I have this knife!'" She whips out a prop knife, the blade glinting in the stage lights.   
  
Backstage, Simeon sighs through his teeth. " _Four_ pages," he mutters.   
  
"I think she's doing great," Primrose says. "I mean, she didn't say 'aw, shucks' this time during that scene with Cyrus. That's improvement."  
  
Simeon rubs his temples. "I suppose I'll take what I can get."  
  


* * *

  
  
"'Such a thing is beyond my wildest dreams, and yet, here you stand before me, as real as the town around us. But how am I to know that you're not merely a dream, Diana? How am I to know that you will be here when I wake?'" Ophilia rubs a tear from her eye. Primrose gives her hands a squeeze.   
  
"'You'll have to trust my word as your friend and know that you are as dear to me as I am to you, Tatiana,'" Primrose replies. "'This, I promise you.'"   
  
"Alright, yes, _just_ like that," Simeon mumbles, watching carefully. "Now, just don't waver…"  
  
Ophilia's eyes well up. "'Oh, Diana,'" she says. "'I can't _believe_ how lucky I am to have you. I was so lost before you came to Brightshadow those years ago.'"  
  
"'Everything will be alright, Tatiana,'" Primrose says. "'On my honor as a Whitmore— no, on my honor as your friend, I promise. I will bring about a day for you where the only tears you cry are tears of joy.'"  
  
"And _now_ you can cry," Simeon decides, right as Ophilia starts crying and buries her face in Primrose's chest, exactly like the edited script says. "Gods. Who would have guesed that _directing_ could be so harrowing?"  
  
"Aw, I'm proud of her," Tressa says, her mouth full of cheese cubes from the backstage snack table, still in costume.   
  
H'aanit hums. "She is quite the actress, I must admitteth," she says.   
  
"There's no _way_ she's faking that," Therion snorts. "C'mon, have you _met_ Sunshine? I'd be worried if she _were_ acting."  
  
The scene changes. Ophila hurries offstage in one direction and Primrose in the other for another costume change. Sure enough, her eyes are red and puffy.  
  
"You did wonderfully that time," Olberic says reassuringly. "An excellent performance."  
  
Ophilia sniffles. "You think so?"  
  
"Ah," H'aanit realizes. "Prepareth posthaste, Ophilia. Our scene is in but minutes."  
  


* * *

  
  
"'What good is anything in this wretched town, truly?'" H'aanit says from the stage. "'I stand upon the balcony of my home, but I know that it was built with bones in its brick and blood in its mortar. My fortune is written upon the flesh of those who have fallen beneath my blade.'" She draws her prop axe, pointing it towards the audience, all of whom are completely enthralled.   
  
"'I won my place through fear and death,'" she continues. "'Aye, I was given a job, and so, I do it, no matter who I must kill. Every life taken is a tragedy but a necessity, if I am to provide for the ones who remain. For the lives in this wretched town are still lives, and for every life I take, those I spare benefit. And so it has come to this.'"  
  
"'I don't care _how_ you justify it to yourself, General Minerva,'" Primrose says, pulling herself off the stage, prop knife in hand. "'Your mercenary reign has come to an end. I'll no longer seduce and steal and kill for you.'"  
  
"'I must admit, it is _very_ few who are bold enough to stand against me,'" H'aanit says. "'I knew you had promise when I found you, Diana. You made a fine soldier of my army. Were you not satisfied with the life I gave to you? Was a position under me not enough for you? Was it not clear to you, when I took you in, that Brightshadow has an _order_ to it, and violators of this order will not be dealt with lightly?  
  
"'We needn't fight,'" she continues. "'There _is_ still a place for you in my army, Diana. If anything, your boldness has proven to me that you'd do better in a higher position. Perhaps even right at my side. But wherever you are, you know that from the moment I took you from the streets, you were mine.'"  
  
Primrose shakes her head. "'I was never yours,'" she says. "'I was _never_ yours, General. And I never _will_ be. You are merely an obstacle in my quest to avenge my father and return home.'"   
  
H'aanit chuckles, low and dangerous. "'So be it,'" she reads. "'If you will not live by my side, then die by my hand!'" She laughs, the danger of it echoing through the theatre. The audience gasps. Backstage, Ophilia buries her face in Alfyn's chest. Therion whistles, clearly impressed.  
  
"You know, there's somethin' awful familiar about _that_ scene specifically," Alfyn remarks, patting Ophilia's shoulder. "But it's also different. It's weird."  
  
"I think it's mostly just weird to hear H'aanit talking like the rest of us," Tressa replies. "Who knew she was such a good actress?"  
  
Therion nods sagely. "Guess Kitty's just full of surprises."  
  


* * *

  
  
Therion hacks, his back to the audience. "'Well… fought,'" he hisses. He forces a chuckle. "'Hah… too bad… your father… couldn't fight like that…'"   
  
"'Don't speak of my father,'" Primrose snarls, pointing her prop knife at him. "'You have lost the right. Or shall I cut out your tongue, too?'"  
  
"'Such a _violent_ little bird,'" Therion chuckles, shuddering and breathing heavily in center stage. "'Hah, well, I wish you luck… you're going to need it… to get your revenge…'"   
  
"'I don't _need_ luck,'" Primrose sneers. "'I will bend the will of fate itself if it means my father can rest in peace.'"  
  
"'Then bend them,'" Therion replies. He coughs. "'Fly home to Kingsyard, little bird. There… you will…'" He gasps, finally falling and going still on the stage. The stage lights go dark. Primrose helps him up and both of them return to backstage for the intermission.  
  
"That was really good!" Tressa says excitedly, while Primrose very quickly changes from her costume to her formal gown, smoothing out the fabric and deciding it'll have to do.   
  
Therion frowns. "Where are _you_ off to in a big hurry? The best food is back here."  
  
Primrose sighs. "I was after the wrong person," she says. "It's not Mr. Vaughan. I need to go for the Lord Corvid himself and I have an hour, tops, to do it."   
  
"That guy gives me the creeps," Tressa comments. "He looks like he has a life-size portrait of himself in his front hall. You know that kinda person?"  
  
"I've never met one, and yet I know exactly what you mean," Olberic says.  
  
Primrose chuckles humorlessly. "Well, lucky me, then. I get to seduce him."  
  
Therion grimaces. "Well, that doesn't sound like much fun."  
  
"It's probably not, but I still have to do it." Primrose shrugs. "Oh, but you can help— when I get him into a room alone, lock the door from the outside, just in case."  
  
Therion shrugs. "Sure. I love being an accomplice to a good, old-fashioned murder."  
  


* * *

  
  
Primrose thanks every god she can name that she catches the Lord Corvid when he's adjusting the buttons on his cuffs in the front hall— alone. This is exactly what she needs. It's almost _too_ perfect— but she's not about to question it, not when she's _so_ close.  
  
"Lord Corvid," she remarks. "Oh, what a surprise. I thought you'd be mingling."  
  
Lord Corvid chuckles. "I'm really not one for parties," he admits. "I prefer smaller gatherings. But I have to admit, the dinner has gone quite well so far. And the show, too, of course." He raises his glass towards Primrose.   
  
Primrose giggles. "Oh, sir, you flatter me," she says coyly. "But I'm _so_ pleased that you're enjoying my performance."  
  
"I can see why Lord Simeon cast you as the lead," he says. "It's almost as if the role was made for you."  
  
"Must be fate or something," Primrose shrugs. "Who can say?"  
  
"Indeed." Lord Corvid chuckles, turning back to the mirror. "Did you need something from me, Lady Primrose?"  
  
"Actually, I wanted to come speak with you without all those pesky nobles in the way," Primrose replies, stepping a little closer, a sway in her hips. Lord Corvid's eyes dart down to the motion, just like everyone else's do. He's just a man, and men are putty in Primrose's hands.  
  
Lord Corvid raises an eyebrow. " _Did_ you? To what end?"  
  
"Well," Primrose purrs. "Simeon speaks highly of my acting skills, but the truth is, my specialty is a _different_ kind of performance."  
  
"Is it the kind men pay to see?" Lord Corvid says wryly.  
  
Primrose shrugs, close enough that she starts idly playing with the buttons on his jacket. "Rich men, certainly," she says. "But, sometimes, there are… _special_ occasions where I perform for free. Though you would imagine it takes a very _special_ man."  
  
Lord Corvid looks a little suspicious, but he notably does not push her hand away. "You certainly are doing a wonderful job of selling it," he admits. "Are you _sure_ you don't have an ulterior motive?"  
  
Primrose giggles. "Oh, Lord Corvid, don't we all? But why dwell on it? Tonight could be the only night you ever see me, after all."   
  
"That is true," Lord Corvid hums. His hand comes to rest on her waist, then down to her hip. "Perhaps I ought to focus on the moment."  
  
"I think that's a _wonderful_ idea," Primrose purrs, setting her hands on his shoulders. "Now why don't you come closer and _show_ me how well you can focus on the moment, Lord Corvid?"  
  
In the shadows of the archway, Therion steals a cautious glance. He immediately regrets it, silently making a face. He's always known, of course, that this was Primrose's job for a very long time, but that doesn't make it any less dissonant when he sees it in action. The Primrose he knows stabs when people try to touch her and never, ever giggles. Seeing her kissing a man is just wrong.  
  
Primrose giggles breathlessly. "My," she says. "You _are_ special."  
  
"It's good to know that I'm not too rusty," the Lord Corvid replies.   
  
"We can check," she says, playing with his collar. "We won't be gone long. Nobody will miss us. And, perhaps, we can… pick it up again after the show?"   
  


* * *

  
  
Therion slowly, quietly, slides the lock on the closet shut and checks the clock. There's still forty minutes until act two is supposed to start. How long does a seduction typically take, for Primrose? Really, he's not sure how long a seduction typically takes in general, but he's pretty sure that twenty minutes is a pretty short amount of time to convince someone to join you in a linen closet.   
  
A part of him wants to linger by the door and listen to make sure Primrose doesn't need help, should something go horribly off-script. And that part of him almost wins until he hears clothing shuffling around, and he's back across the hall faster than any human being should be able to move.   
  
He sighs, rubbing his hands over his face. Therion does know, logically, that this sort of thing… _happens_. He knows for a fact, because Primrose has told him, that she has experience in _making_ it happen. But that doesn't mean that he's not still going to fervently deny it because it's weird to think about.   
  
Unfortunately for Therion, it still happens.  
  


* * *

  
  
Primrose breaks away with a sigh, tracing her hand over Lord Corvid's chest. His shirt's unbuttoned, but not off, not quite. There's just enough light to see inside the closet.   
  
"Oh, what's this I see?" she asks, pushing the fabric from one of his shoulders. What she sees _almost_ makes her break character— black ink on his skin, in the unmistakable shape of a dark bird on his right arm.   
  
The Right Crow.   
  
Her next mark.   
  
Lord Corvid chuckles. "Ah, don't worry about that," he says. "It's not important."  
  
"Actually, Lord Corvid," Primrose purrs, slowly reaching into the hidden pocket in the lining of her skirt. "It's _very_ important."  
  
"Oh?" Lord Corvid frowns. "Why might that be?"  
  
Primrose's knife is at his throat.  
  
"I haven't been completely honest with you, Lord Corvid," she says, all pretense of attraction evaporated. "I saw how you reacted when I mentioned Rufus in Stillsnow. It _is_ quite odd he didn't reply to your invitation, isn't it?"   
  
Lord Corvid swallows carefully. He tries to move, but Primrose pins him to the pile of extra linens with all the strength and anger in her muscles. "It is," he says. "That's not like him."  
  
"Oh, well, perhaps you didn't get the message," Primrose says through her teeth. "Rufus is _dead_ , Lord Corvid, by _my_ hand. Guess who's next."  
  
She digs her knife in further. "Azelhart," she demands. "What does that name mean to you?"  
  
Lord Corvid sighs heavily. "Geoffrey," he says, almost sorrowful. "He called me a friend, once. When I was General Albus."   
  
Primrose almost drops her knife. "Then—" she says. She shakes her head. "Then you know why I'm asking. You know who I am."  
  
"Yes," General Albus says. "Yes, I know who you are. Little Primrose." He chuckles. "My, you've grown."  
  
Primrose bares her teeth in a deadly smile. "Not so little anymore, am I?"   
  
"I expect you're going to kill me now," he says. "I had… suspected, when Rufus didn't respond to my invitation. When I heard a rumor, ages ago, of a dancer breaking her master's hold on the town of Sunshade."   
  
"Oh, I see my reputation precedes me," Primrose says. "How _fortunate_."  
  
"How did you find us, anyway?" Albus asks. "Might I at least ask that of you, before you kill me?"   
  
"Oh, I _suppose_ I'll entertain a dying man's wishes," Primrose sighs. "It was easy. Do you remember that night, ten… no, oh, _eleven_ years ago, now? Do you remember the night you killed Geoffrey Azelhart?"  
  
"I do," Lord Corvid admits.   
  
Primrose digs the knife further under his chin. "I was _there_ ," she hisses. "While the three of you stabbed my father and left him to drown in his own blood in his own home, I was _there_. I watched the whole thing. I _saw_ those marks— the Right Crow, the Left Crow, the Head."  
  
She tightens her grip on her knife. "Rufus doomed himself the moment he let something fall from his pocket," she continues. "A flier for a tavern in Sunshade, owned by a man called Helgenish. Do you know where I spent those years waiting for him to appear again, Lord Corvid? Do you know what I have given, endured, lost— all for _this_ moment?"  
  
"The world has not been kind to you, little Primrose," Albus mumbles.   
  
"Enough talking," she snarls. "I'll let you tell me one more thing before you die by my hand. Where do I find the Head?"  
  
Albus breathes. "He's close," he says. "He's in this very building."  
  
"You'd _better_ not be lying to me," she growls. "You swear? You swear on the honor you lost when you betrayed my father?"  
  
"I swear," Albus says. "And I surrender to your judgement, little Primrose. You have won. I see no point in fighting you now."  
  
Primrose sucks in a breath through her teeth. The knife cuts into his throat, quick and clean. She doesn't need to make him suffer, not when he surrendered.   
  
"And then there was one," she says to his body. "'You died as you lived, Albus— a coward."  
  


* * *

  
  
Therion stands guard while Primrose washes every trace of blood from her skin and fixes her dress so nobody guesses what she was up to— either with the murder or with the seduction. She succeeds, but there's only five minutes until act two is set to begin. Therion follows her quick clip back towards the theater.   
  
"So, did you really, uh," Therion says. "Get down to it in that closet?"  
  
Primrose snorts. "He didn't deserve it. And I didn't need to anyway, once I saw the mark. He practically surrendered when I put my knife to his throat."  
  
"Did he tell you where the third guy is?" Therion asks.   
  
"He said the Head Crow is in this building," Primrose hums. "Ah, shit, we'll have to figure that out after the play. We don't have time right now."  
  
"I'll ask around during the second act," he says. "Because you kinda killed Julius at the end of act one."  
  
"Oh, that's lucky," Primrose remarks. "Well, if you learn anything, you know where to find me."  
  


* * *

  
  
Olberic drops to a knee on the stage, clutching the dummy knife to his stomach, very convincingly gasping for breath. He hunches over, catching himself on one hand.   
  
"'And so… it ends…'" he chokes out. "'Little Diana… does this… please you?'"  
  
Primrose scoffs, walking around him as he dies, looking at him with contempt. "'It wouldn't matter either way,'" she says. "'What I wanted stopped mattering long ago, General Ezekiel.'"  
  
"'What would… your father… think of this,'" Olberic manages. He coughs, falling onto his side. "'Little Diana…'"  
  
Diana doesn't answer him. She yanks the knife from his gut. It comes away covered in sticky fake blood. "'And then there was one,'" she says. "'Now, the last one… my final target. If I were a killer, where would I be?'"   
  
She pokes around Olberic's body and finds a slip of paper. "'Ah, how fortuitous,'" she says. "'It seems the final man on my list is right here in Kingsyard. A fan of dancing, is he? Clearly I have to get onto that guest list…'"  
  
"Oh, right, this is when Pierre finally shows up," Tressa remembers. "Man, for the male lead, he's really not in the script much, is he?"  
  
"The point of the play is not about what _Pierre_ is doing, miss Colzione," Simeon replies. "Diana is the main character, and thus, the story is from her point of view. All others are secondary."  
  
"Very poetic," Cyrus remarks. "Considering the ending, that is."   
  
Ophilia shivers. "I still say it's awful," she says. "Pierre is horrible! What sort of a monster would betray his friend's trust like that?"  
  
"I mean," Tressa admits. "We've met some people like that. It's not like it never happens."  
  
"Well, it shouldn't," Ophilia says stubbornly.   
  
"If you're all quite finished," Simeon interrupts. "There's my cue."  
  


* * *

  
  
The orchestra plays a beautiful waltz as Primrose and Simeon, in character, dance across the stage, looking like a painting made reality. It's the minutes of the dance that speak for itself; the brief spot marked out in the script.   
  
"So, just so you know," Simeon murmurs to Primrose. "I'll be going a little off-script in the final scene. Can you ad-lib with me?"  
  
"I can certainly try," Primrose agrees. "Simeon, I thought you weren't going to change anything about the final scene, given how proud of it you were. Is this your perfectionism talking?"  
  
Simeon chuckles. "It's sweet of you to worry, my dear," he says. "But no, nothing of the sort. I just thought of a different way to do things. But it's really a small change. The ending is the same as we practiced."  
  
Primrose hesitates. "Alright, if you say so," she says. "Did you tell the rest of the team?"  
  
"Oh, do they _really_ need to know?" Simeon replies. "They're not part of the play anymore, my dear Primrose. It's just us."  
  
"That's true," Primrose says uncertainly.  
  
"To be _entirely_ truthful," Simeon continues. "Do you really _need_ them? I've been here for you longer than any of them have. I know you in a way they don't."  
  
"Do we really need to discuss this now?" Primrose mutters. "I don't know, Simeon. I just don't know. These past few weeks have been so confusing, and I still haven't avenged my father. That's the most important part."  
  
"Ah, of course," Simeon admits. "But, still, you must admit they've all been _awfully_ suspicious. I'm your oldest and dearest friend, remember? Trying to separate us is quite odd, with them knowing how happy I make you."  
  
Primrose frowns. "I'm still not convinced any of them are actually _doing_ that," she says.   
  
Simeon chuckles. The audience oohs as Simeon swings her close to him, closer than they'd been before. "You _really_ don't remember all I've told you? All the things I've heard them say? Really, the things I've overheard are _quite_ harsh."  
  
"It's probably all just a big misunderstanding," Primrose insists. "Simeon, I know not all of you get along, but there's no reason that you can't still be my friend while I'm also friends with the rest of them. We're not kids. There's no hierarchy of friends."  
  
"Don't you trust me?" Simeon replies. "You don't believe what I've told you?"  
  
"No, no, I—" she shakes her head. "I believe _that_ you told me, yes. But I'm still not sure how much I believe _what_ you told me. And, anyway, I _really_ think we ought to save this discussion for after the show."  
  
"Ah, of course," Simeon agrees. "There will be _plenty_ of time then."   
  
Primrose exhales. "That's good," she says. "The show must go on and all, right?"  
  


* * *

  
  
"'Oh, Pierre, how I missed you,'" Primrose says, throwing herself into Simeon's arms. The stage lights are focused on them and them alone. "'We were apart for too many long years.'"  
  
"'I'm here now,'" Simeon promises. "'And we'll never be separated again, my love.'"  
  
Primrose pushes herself back. "'Love? But how can you say that to me now that you've seen the things I've done? The places I've been?'"  
  
"'Vengeance is not pretty,'" Simeon admits. "'But you are still Diana, my oldest and dearest friend, and I would never give that up. Not if you offered me the world.'"  
  
"'You're still as charming as ever,'" Primrose chuckles. "'And it… it's strange. You know, Pierre, I've felt, somehow, as if you were with me, through every blood-drenched step I took. Do you suppose it's fate, or something of the sort?'"  
  
Simeon shrugs. "'Only the gods know,'" he says, reaching out and gently taking her hand. "'And I may not be a god, my dear Diana, only but a man, but I cannot help but see it as divine providence that the whims of fate should return you to me.'"  
  
Primrose smiles. "'It is nice to see it that way, isn't it?'" she says. She pulls away, her smile dropping. "'But I'm not done yet. There's still one more man I have to track down. Julius, General Ezekiel— those two were but preludes for the main event, for when I find and kill the foulest bird of them all.'"  
  
She slowly walks further towards the front of the stage. The light follows her, the contrast stark. "'You must know, Pierre, that you never left my mind, not once,'" she says, looking towards the audience. Simeon slowly paces around the background, circling like a beast circling its prey. "'All that time I spent away from home, all the horrible things I've seen and done— I pushed through all of it not just to avenge my father, but so I would one day return to you.'"  
  
Simeon nods. It's quiet for a long time, save for his bootsteps on the stage. "'You must know something, too, Diana,'" he says. "'The truth is… I've been keeping a horrible secret from you. A secret that I know you can never forgive me for.'"  
  
Primrose frowns. "'What could possibly be so heinous that I couldn't forgive you, Pierre?'" she says. "'You know I trust you more than any other.'"  
  
"'I do know,'" Simeon agrees. He turns to face stage left, towards Primrose. "'Diana, would you come face me? I feel I must tell you this without turning away.'"  
  
Primrose turns. "'Will you tell me now, Pierre?'" she asks. "'Will you tell me what horrible secret you've been keeping from me, that you're sure I will never forgive you for?'"  
  
Simeon smiles with no warmth. "'Your wish is my command, my dear,'" he says. Slowly, he leans in, a hand on Primrose's waist, his mouth by her ear as if to whisper a secret. Primrose braces for the feeling of the dummy knife, but it doesn't come. Nothing comes. This must be what Simeon meant by going off-script.  
  
"Look," he whispers. Before her eyes, he pulls his cravat apart.   
  
There is something that wraps around his neck from the back.   
  
It's dark against his pale skin, its edges blurred, marking it as an old tattoo.   
  
Even in the dark shadows of the spotlights, Primrose sees it in the unmistakable shape of feathers.  
  
"It was _you_ ," she whispers. "You… you were right in front of me this whole time."  
  
Simeon chuckles. "So, now you know," he says, pulling back. "Yes, my dear, it was me. _I_ am the man you've been looking for, that you've been chasing shadows of all across the country."  
  
Primrose shakes her head. "No," she says, trying to back away. "No, no, no, please, it _can't_ be true, it—" she can't move. Simeon holds her close. His touch is like ice. There is no sign of jest in his face, only the smug grin and the complete sincerity of how pleased he is.   
  
Everything is going according to plan.  
  
"Hush, my dear," Simeon purrs. "Don't you trust me?"  
  
Primrose shakes her head. There are tears on her cheeks. "I don't know," she chokes out. "I don't know. I don't know anymore."  
  
"Shhh," Simeon murmurs. "And when the moon waxes full and bright in dark heaven / And stars glitter worlds away from earthly sorrow…"   
  
Primrose feels like she can't breathe. She feels like she's struggling but she can't move, like she's being pulled apart in every direction, like the world is melting in front of her and she's being forced to watch as everything she ever loved crumbles around her.   
  
There's a flash of silver in Simeon's hand.   
  
"Would that Sleep hold you in her soft embrace," he says. "Then shall my eyes close, lips open in prayer…"   
  
It doesn't hurt. That's the strangest part. But she feels the impact, and she knows, for certain, what happened. She staggers back. Simeon lets her go. Her vision fades around the edges. Her hands are cold. She feels cold. Wasn't she always cold?  
  
She doesn't know when she hits the stage. She doesn't know when her heartbeat picks up like war drums in her ears. But she does hear this:   
  
"… For it is only in dreams that we may meet again."  
  
And then it   
  
all  
  
goes  
  
dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	8. Let Go of the Stems

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh look a chapter of reasonable length! alternate title: Medical Drama? In MY Octopath Genfic? It's More Likely Than You Think
> 
> i should mention: i kinda hc that healing magic doesn't necessarily Sew Up Wounds or shit, but it keeps injuries from getting infected and stuff. probably more than that. it's 3am i dont remember lmao

.  
  
.  
  
.  
  
darkness.  
  
Whispering, gentle and soft. Rustling.  
  
Tapping. Louder and softer as the whispering ebbs and flows, slower and faster, no pattern. Can it be counted? One-two, three, four-five-six, seven, eight. A metronome with no rhythm leading a song with no beat.   
  
Pain in the darkness, or was it always there? A steady soreness that refuses to ease. Tired. Heavy. Cold. Warm?   
  
Pressure, constant, but not painful. Not everywhere. Gentle vibration— constant, soothing. A coldness in one place but heat in another. On the surface, softness. Below, support. A steady beat inside, a quiet ringing. Air, but it's sharp, clinical in what it carries. Silver and aloe and mint. Something else. Lavender? The taste of something sour, sticky. Less pleasant than the lavender.  
  
Prickling. Shifting. Pain, but not agony. Shoulders. Torso. Legs. Arms. Head. Ten fingers, ten toes. Two elbows, two knees. Heartbeat, breathing. Creaking joints shifting after being still for too long. Tension. Stretching. Shifting. Prickling heat, cooling sweat.   
  
Aching. Back to sleep. Too tired, too heavy. Five more minutes. Five more years. Rest.  
  
A touch. Heavy, constant, taking shape. Warm, gentle, rough. Pressure. There's a pulse. Slower than the beating, but strong. Present. Constant. Saying, with every beat, that it is still here and will not leave. It's steady. What is it?  
  
Tapping. Rustling. Wind in trees, a branch tapping on a glass window. Soft sheets and warm quilts. Feathers in a pillow— the smell of lavender. Chirping— birds, in the trees outside the window. The touch of a hand. On your feet, now.  
  
Light.  
  
There's wood-beam ceiling. It meets a yellowed stucco wall. There's a window further down. Sunlight pours through it. It makes a square over the quilts. It shines through the leaves of a tree, the shadows shifting as the leaves moves in the breeze. A branch taps against the pane. There's a little red bird. It hurts to focus on. There's a door, propped open with a hatbox. A desk, cluttered with little things— a mortar and pestle, rolls of bandages, a bowl of water, a needle and thread. Medical things.   
  
Memory comes back in bits and pieces. Noblecourt. Simeon. The play. Rehearsals. Formalwear. Opening night. Lord Corvid. Act two. Simeon. _Simeon_.  
  
Primrose shifts, trying to bring feeling back into her stiff joints. Linde is curled up next to her, her head on Primrose's chest. She's purring. That explains at least a little bit.   
  
It's not just Linde. Primrose turns her head. All seven of her friends are asleep in the room, somewhere or other. There's Alfyn in a chair against the wall, wearing his apothecary's apron. Ophilia, her staff on her lap, leans against him with her head on the wall. Olberic snores with his arms folded on the low sofa on the other wall, Cyrus's head on one shoulder and Tressa's on the other. Therion sits on the floor, leaning against the side of the sofa. She doesn't notice H'aanit until she remembers the hand in hers. Her hand is palm-down on the bed beside her, and H'aanit's rests on top, a thumb on her wrist. H'aanit herself is asleep in a chair by the bedside, her head pillowed on her other arm and resting on the nightstand. She's missing her furry cloak, and Primrose realizes a second later that it's set on top of the blankets, another layer of warmth.  
  
 _On your feet, now._  
  
Primrose tries to move. She grimaces. She feels bandages wrapped around her torso, but she can't see it, because the covers are pulled up to her chin. The movement wakes Linde, who sits up and immediately pushes her head under Primrose's chin, her tail swishing and her purring constant. Primrose smiles, and pulls her free hand up to scratch behind Linde's ears.   
  
Therion lifts his head groggily, blinking in the morning sunlight. All grogginess evaporates when he sees Primrose awake. He lets out a breath, his shoulders lowering in relief. But, like, in a cool way. He has a reputation, after all.  
  
He stands up and leans against the wall on the other side of the bed. "Hey," he says. There are dark shadows under his one visible eye.  
  
"Hey," Primrose croaks. "You look like shit."  
  
Therion snorts. "Well, so do you."  
  
"Give me a break, I got stabbed," Primrose scoffs. Her mouth feels like it's lined with glue. "I'm allowed to look like shit."  
  
H'aanit mumbles indistinctly, keeping her head down but opening one eye. "Good morrow," she mumbles, her voice hoarse.   
  
Primrose smiles. "Good morrow to you, too," she replies.   
  
Over on the couch, Tressa stirs. She stretches her arms out, pushing against Olberic and elbowing him in the face— which, impressively, isn't enough to wake him up. "Five more hours, ma," she mumbles. Then she blinks, looks around, and visibly brightens when she sees Primrose.  
  
"You're okay!" she says, pushing past Therion. She restrains herself from hugging, which Primrose appreciates, but can't blame her for wanting to. "It was real dicey for a while. But you'll probably be glad to know that Linde caught up with him and sunk her teeth real good into one of his arms. He still got away, but I'll bet he felt that."  
  
Primrose's heart aches. It _should_ make her happy to know that— Simeon betrayed her trust in the worst way, in the worst moment, revealing that he'd been lying the whole time. All the sweet things he said to her, how he called her his _muse_ , all that he said about being her oldest and dearest friend, the one she can trust the most, the one who understood her— all lies. Every word to her from his mouth had been a lie.  
  
And Primrose had been stupid enough to believe every one.  
  
"We, unfortunately, don't know where he went," Therion admits. "But we can discuss that later."  
  
Tressa bounces on the balls of her feet. "Yeah," she agrees. "How are you feeling?"  
  
Primrose shrugs, ignoring the waves of pain it generates. "Been better, been worse. Hey, where are we?"  
  
"Mr. Forsythe's house," Therion answers. "Figured it was the safest place. Especially with, uh… everything that happened."  
  
Tressa grimaces. "It's kind of bad."  
  
"The whole city's in chaos because the noble houses don't have anything keeping them from trying to kill each other to gain dominance and become the governor, Simeon took the Obsidians with him when he ran so now the hold they had on the city is completely gone and nobody knows how to handle it, and the Actor's Guild is marking this down as the worst opening night in Noblecourt history," Therion sums up. "So, y'know."  
  
Tresa kicks at the sofa. "Hey, grandpas, rise and shine," she calls. "We're gonna make plans to kill rat bitch! Up and at 'em!"  
  
Olberic snorts and jerks awake. "Who—" he starts. He blinks, smiles, and nods to Primrose. "Good morning."  
  
Cyrus groans, peeling his face from Olberic's chest. "What time is it? Where's the coffee?"  
  
Therion snorts. "Academics."  
  
Alfyn grumbles something, looking up and rubbing his eyes. "Who's hollerin'? Too fuckin' early— oh." He blinks, eyes settling on Primrose, awake and alert. Beside him, Ophilia looks up, looks around blearily, and then goes back to sleep.   
  
"Hey," Primrose says. "Long night?"  
  
Alfyn scratches the back of his neck. "Yeah, you could say that. How are you feeling?"  
  
Primrose grimaces.  
  
"That good, huh?" Alfyn chuckles. "Alright, move aside, folks. Give the lady her space. Sorry, Linde."  
  
Linde huffs, but reluctantly gets off of Primrose. H'aanit sits up and stretches, which can't be pleasant, if she slept hunched over all night.   
  
"You know, _usually_ when I'm topless in a room full of people, I'm being paid for it," Primrose comments. "This is a first."  
  
"Let's hope it's a last, considering that you got fuckin' stabbed," Alfyn says. "Alright, let's get you sitting up so we can change those bandages. This is gonna hurt, and, uh, there'll be touching. You want H'aanit to do it?"  
  
There's genuine concern in his eyes. Primrose still doesn't quite know how to react to that.   
  
"It's fine," she says. "You're the doctor."   
  
He puts one hand on her back and helps her scoot a little further, just to the point she's mostly upright. As one may expect, it hurts a lot. But Primrose has grit her teeth through worse, and this is no different. Even so, it takes more effort than she would like, and there's sweat on her brow when she's finally upright, holding the covers to her chest and twisting her hands in the fabric.   
  
"I'm gonna see about breakfast," Therion says, on his way to the door. "Hey, Kitty, you coming? I bet the lady will let you at the oven if you ask."  
  
H'aanit rubs her eyes. "I wouldst remain here, if it pleaseth thee, Primrose."  
  
"I don't see why I'm stopping you," Primrose replies. "Do what you want."   
  
"Aye, but," H'aanit says. "What dost thou want?"  
  
The question sits heavier in her mind than expected. Is there a right answer? Part of her wants to ask H'aanit to stay, to never let go of her hand, to remind her what warmth feels like, to anchor her while her mind still swirls with Simeon's betrayal and the wake of all the damage he did.   
  
She shakes her head. "Go eat breakfast," she says. "Alfyn's here. I'll be fine."  
  
The rest of the team leaves in search of the theoretical breakfast, even H'aanit, albeit reluctantly. Ophilia sleeps through it all, and presumably will continue to do so for quite some time. Olberic picks her up and takes her to a guest room. Primrose breathes. It's just the two of them now.  
  
"How do you feel?" Alfyn asks. "Dizzy? Nauseous?"  
  
Primrose shakes her head. "Hungry," she says. "Does that count?"  
  
Alfyn chuckles. "We'll work up to it. Let me see your face? Eyes open, like that."   
  
Primrose obliges. "Why?"  
  
"Checking for brain damage." Alfyn pulls back, fumbling through the pockets of his apron. "I'm not seeing any signs now, but it never hurts to check, yeah? Had any head injuries before?"  
  
Primrose hesitates. "A few," she admits. "I, um, don't remember much. So, probably more than a few."  
  
Alfyn looks at her for a second, brows knit together in concern. Then he sighs, pushing his hair away from his face. "Well, it's a good thing I'm not noticing anything now, which is real lucky for you. And I can guess they didn't get treated, right?"  
  
Primrose avoids the question. "If I notice anything strange, I'll tell you. Really," she promises. "Besides, why are you checking for brain damage if I got stabbed?"  
  
"You kind of hit the floor pretty hard," Alfyn replies, rubbing the back of his neck. "We, uh… we thought it was part of the show. But then Linde went and tried to attack Simeon, and you didn't come out for the bow at the end, and." He swallows. "I dunno if I saw the blood comin' out from under the curtain or if I heard the stagehand screaming first, but there you were, since the curtain shut, and the show went on."  
  
Primrose is quiet. She loosens her grip on the bedcovers just a little.  
  
"First round of Phili's magic was right then and there," Alfyn continues, starting to carefully pull apart the bandages around Primrose's torso. The blood is dried and sticks to the cloth, but Alfyn is careful, and it doesn't hurt. "Kept things from getting too much worse, but we had to bring you back here to stitch you up, and the whole time was… well, there was a lot happening. When the stagehand started screaming and Linde tore off after Simeon, the audience realized something was wrong, and then they saw you, and someone found the Lord Corvid dead in a closet, so. You can imagine it was a little chaotic.  
  
"Y'know, H'aanit carried you," he says. "She wouldn't let anybody else do it. Wouldn't leave your side through all the hours it took to get you stable enough we could let you rest. Everyone else was in'n out, s'far as I can remember. I do remember that by around five, when I'd done everything I could and we knew you were gonna make it, everyone else was conked out on the couch." He chuckles a little. "Even once we knew you were gonna be okay, none of us could leave you in good conscience. It was a pretty rough night, to say the least. You know, I never thought I'd ever see H'aanit of all people look so scared."  
  
Primrose looks at the covers. H'aanit's pelt cloak is on top, and it's blessedly warm and soft under Primrose's hands. It smells like her— pine needles and campfire smoke. She wants to gather it up and hold it to her chest, press her cheek into the white fur, sink into the smell and never let go, but Alfyn's busy with the bandages.   
  
"Here we go," he hums. Primrose feels him pull free the last layer of bandages. They come away increasingly bloody as the layers get further in. The air is cold on her stomach. She looks down and regrets it— there's a line on her stomach covered in knotted black stitching, surrounded by blue and purple bruises and puckered skin.   
  
"Ah, not so bad," Alfyn says brightly. "The stitches are holding, and the blood's all dried. You're gonna be just fine."  
  
Primrose smiles weakly. "Well, that's good."  
  
"Take a few deep breaths for me," Alfyn says. "I'm gonna put a hand on your back to make sure you're getting it all the way in, is that okay?"  
  
Primrose nods. Alfyn's hand comes to rest between her shoulderblades. She breathes in until it hurts, and then lets it out. She does it again. Was she always this tired? Maybe she's been sitting up for too long.  
  
"How are you feeling?" he asks.   
  
_Been better_ , Primrose thinks. But, really, she doesn't have the energy for a smart comment. Instead, she sighs. "I'm sorry," she mumbles. "I should've seen through Simeon's bullshit the moment I saw him in Noblecourt again. But I was so wrapped up in— in the fact that here's _something_ from before all of this that hasn't changed, he might as well have had me strung up in wire and lace like one of his fucking marionettes."  
  
"Hey, don't say that," Alfyn says gently. "Don't say that. Man's the worst kinda manipulative son of a bitch. Hey, I'm gonna start putting fresh bandages on. Is that okay?"  
  
" _You_ could tell something was off," Primrose replies. She nods to Alfyn's question. Her hair's down, she notices. Long and wavy and brown over her shoulders and down her back. When did that happen, and who thought of it? "When you, of all people, didn't trust Simeon, I should've listened."  
  
"Well, yeah," Alfyn says. "'Cuz he was your friend— I mean, you _thought_ he was." He chuckles lightly. "C'mon, do you really think _I'm_ gonna blame you for trustin' somebody?"  
  
Primrose cracks a smile without much humor. She sighs, letting her shoulders drop. It's not like her. She knows the mask she wears better than she knows what lies beneath. Ordinarily, she would shrug and change the subject, steer the conversation somewhere that won't involve questions about her. But there's something churning up her thoughts, making feelings and impulses normally deeply buried rise to the surface. She supposes Simeon always had a way of knowing exactly what to say to her. She hadn't realized how much of him had found its way into her mind until he yanked himself out, and it shook things up like pulling out a weed and ending up overturning all the dirt around it.   
  
She keeps thinking, if she can't trust Simeon, who _can_ she trust?  
  
But there's something else that replies, _you're looking at him._  
  
"I'll have Ophilia check on the healing process when she wakes up," Alfyn says. "You might not need another round, but it doesn't hurt to clear up any infection that might've settled in that I haven't caught."  
  
"She must've been really tired," Primrose comments. "If she managed to sleep through all of that commotion."  
  
"Ah, healing magic really wears you out," Alfyn shrugs. "She started goin' pale after the third round at 'bout two this morning, so I made her sit down and she was out like a light. Reckon she'll be asleep 'til around lunchtime."  
  
Primrose looks at the blankets. _You're doing all of this for me_ , she thinks. She can't make herself say that.

She pauses. It hits her all at once what she's missing, and it comes in a rush of bristling fear that kept her alive for half her life. "My dagger," she says. "Where's—"

Alfyn hands her bag to her. It's still tied tight, and her dagger is set on top. They disturbed as little as possible— they remembered that she doesn't like that. Primrose's heart aches with something that feels like fondness; something she thought she'd never feel again.

She takes it. "Thank you," she says. The dagger's familiar weight in her hands is the same comfort now as it was during long nights in Sunshade when she staggered back to the dormitory later than the others, aching in every bone in her body, and it took all her willpower to remember _Azelhart, Azelhart, Azelhart._  
  
Alfyn stands up. "Alright!" he decides. "Breakfast time!"  
  
"Oh, that sounds wonderful," Primrose agrees. She tries to shift out of bed, but Alfyn holds up a hand.  
  
"Nah, sorry, you're stayin' right here," he says. "Doctor's orders. You're on bed rest for at least another couple days."   
  
She sighs. "Oh, fine," she concedes. "If you say so, Medicine Man."  
  
Alfyn grins at her, and then he's gone, and the room is empty. The breeze still rustles and the branch still taps. The bird is gone. There are four more. Primrose doesn't know what they are, nor does she care very much. She's mostly just hungry.  
  
Linde paps back in and wiggles her head under Primrose's hand. Primrose rubs behind her ears, because who is she to say no when invited to pet a cat. H'aanit's close behind.  
  
"I seem to have stolen your cloak," Primrose says.  
  
H"aanit cracks a smile. "Thou weren shivering," she says. "The chill was inside, aye, not out, but Alfyn said 'twould not do any harm."  
  
H'aanit sits back down in the chair where, presumably, she spent the night. Primrose stretches her hand out. H'aanit takes it. She says nothing. Her face is stoic, as always, but Primrose can read the emotion in her eyes— concern, relief, sadness, all mixed up into something unrecognizable but bitter in the mouth.   
  
Primrose gives her hand a squeeze. "I'm okay," she promises. "Alfyn says I just need another round of Ophilia's healing magic and the worst part will be over. I'm not going anywhere."  
  
H'aanit nods. "Aye," she says. "He knowest better than I."  
  
"But you're still worried," Primrose replies.  
  
"'Tis no reason I would not," H'aanit says. "Thou art a valued and much loved part of the group."  
  
She takes a shaky breath. "For a time, we thoughtest that… that we'd lost thee. And even when it becamest clear that thine heart still beat, 'twas no certainty that it would continue."  
  
Primrose is quiet. H'aanit turns Primrose's hand over, places a thumb on where her palm meets her wrist. "Thine heart beats strong and loud," she murmurs, her voice thick. "Alfyn let me remaineth by thine side whilst he and Ophilia did what it tooketh to keep thee alive. 'Twere many horrid moments wherein I would looketh down at thee and thought that…" she falters. She's not crying, nor does she look like she's about to, but it's the most emotional Primrose has ever seen her.  
  
H'aanit swallows and shakes her head. "But thine heart beat throughout," she says. "And 'twas the continued pulse that I felt beneath thine skin that remindeth me thou weren still here. That thou truly be not going anywhere." She chuckles a little, the way you do when it's either laugh or cry.   
  
Primrose squeezes her hand. "And now I can tell you with my words, not just my heartbeat," she replies. "I won't leave you."   
  
H'aanit gives her a weary smile. She definitely stayed up far too late. Primrose turns her hand over and rubs her thumb over H'aanit's knuckles. Her hands are strong and rough with calluses, as one would expect. There's a starburst-shaped scar over her middle two fingers.   
  
Primrose looks at it. "What's that?" she asks.  
  
"Ah," H'aanit smiles wryly. "I foundeth myself in a fistfight when I was… oh, fourteen, fifteen— around there. I dealteth the winning blow, but, alas, it nearly split my hand open. Master Z'aanta scolded me for my recklessness in getting into said fight in the first place. It truly sayeth something that he, of all people, wouldst scold me. 'Tis normally the other way around."  
  
Primrose chuckles. She runs her thumb across the scar tissue. It's old, faded as much as it will be— it's over ten years old, so that figures. She's always found it interesting, the stories scars can tell. Of course, then she collected some of her own, and they're stories she'd rather forget.  
  
Primrose hesitates. "I felt your hand," she says. "When I was still mostly under. Like an anchor to the world."  
  
H'aanit squeezes her hand gently. "I did promisen thee," she says quietly. "As long as thou shalt have me, I will remaineth by thy side."  
  


* * *

  
  
Without the adrenaline of battle numbing the pain, healing _hurts_.  
  
Primrose has felt pain before, but it's no picnic. She grits her teeth and clenches her hands in the bedcovers while she feels like she's been set on fire. She hears Ophilia muttering apologies all through the agonizing seconds that contain eternities, feels Alfyn's hand on the back of her shoulder, keeping her upright. Spots dance in her vision of the insides of her eyelids. Her knuckles are white.  
  
The burning continues even as it fades, until, finally, it's bearable again. She breathes through her teeth, slowly pries her hands back open.   
  
"That's that," Alfyn says. "The worst is over. You did real good! How do you feel?"  
  
Primrose feels like throwing up. She holds the back of her hand over her mouth and forces the urge back down. "Could be worse," she says.  
  
"I'm sorry," Ophilia says, lowering her staff. "I don't usually heal people while they're both out of battle and, um, conscious. If only because they pass out pretty quickly."  
  
"Lucky me," Primrose says tightly.   
  
"You're gonna be just fine," Alfyn promises. His voice is warm and gentle— his healer voice. Primrose has heard it before, but never been on the recieving end, mostly because there's never been a need for serious medical attention. "I reckon you'll be okay to get up and walk around a bit after another day of bed rest. Not doin' cartwheels or nothin,' but walking. One step at a time."  
  
"Oh, can I finally get dressed then?" Primrose asks, wincing as Alfyn helps her lie back down. "If you two get to see any more I'll have to start asking you to pay me for my services."  
  
"Services?" Ophilia blinks. "Oh! Oh, right. I know what that means. I understood that joke." She pauses. "It _was_ a joke, right?"  
  
Primrose chuckles. "Depends on how much you're willing to pay, sweetheart. I'm willing to negotiate." Ophilia's face turns very red. She busies herself with gathering up the old bandages, and Primrose has to smile a little. Ophilia's really very cute, in an "innocent puppy that needs protection" kind of way.  
  
She breathes, letting her head rest back on the pillows. "So, I forgot to ask," she says. "Did the audience like the play?"  
  
"They seemed to like it a whole lot," Alfyn says. "I mean, Simeon's a good writer. I can imagine the "sadistic sociopath" thing kinda helps in writing tragedies."  
  
Primrose chuckles wryly. "And here I thought he just understood the human condition. I can't believe I didn't see it sooner."  
  
Alfyn shook his head. "It's not your fault. You know that."  
  
"Isn't it, though?" Primrose replies. "If I'd seen through his bullshit before all of this went down— if I'd known how much of a shitstain he was all those years ago, then maybe we could've avoided all of this."  
  
"Oh, come on," Alfyn protests. "You were what, twelve? The man had most of us fooled, and we're grown-ass adults."  
  
Primrose knows he's right, but she's not convinced.   
  
She breathes. "We should go after him," she says. "If I know Simeon, he went back to his hometown— unless he lied to me about that, too."  
  
"Hold up," Alfyn says. "You're not ready to travel anywhere yet. You need to take it easy for at least two weeks to be back up to full health."  
  
"Two weeks, huh?" Primrose repeats. "Alright. Watch me do it in one."  
  


* * *

  
  
Nobody is particularly enthused about Primrose brute-forcing her way through a stab wound, but nobody's particularly surprised, either. So in the next few days, she's back up and about, walking unsupported, and it hurts like shit, but she's not going to say as much. Still, at any given moment, there's someone telling Primrose to sit down and not overexert herself. She appreciates it, but she's going to ignore them anyway.   
  
Noblecourt is in chaos. The death of the Lord Corvid and subsequent complete removal of the Obsidians' presence from the city threw absolutely everything off-balance— it seems there was an Obsidian agent in every other business, and has been for quite some time. That just seems to be what Simeon does, Primrose thinks bitterly, is he worms himself into every crack and crevice so nothing is the same when he yanks himself out.  
  
Primrose doesn't see Revello that often, and she's told it's because he's stepped up to bring some semblance of order back. From where she's standing, she can't tell if it's working, but there's no rioting and the noble houses seem to be putting the feuds aside in favor of ensuring their own safety during this dangerous time. At least there's still one person with sense in Noblecourt.  
  
She taps the map spread out and weighed down on the Forsythe's kitchen table. "Everhold," she says. "That's where Simeon told me he was from. If he didn't lie to me about that like he lied to me about everything else, then I'd bet good leaves that that's where he went. He thinks himself the protagonist of his epic play, and it's only appropriate that the final confrontation happen where it all began."  
  
"That's quite a trip," Cyrus mumbles. "But you know him better than we do, Primrose. I trust your judgement."  
  
Primrose smiles halfheartedly. "I appreciate the vote of confidence," she says. "Can you all be ready to go in four days?"  
  
"No, no way," Alfyn cuts in. "You're not ready to travel that far this soon after getting fuckin' stabbed."  
  
Primrose turns her gaze to him, hard and icy. "I leave in four days, with or without you," she replies. "And neither you nor the gods could stop me."  
  
Alfyn sighs and puts his hands up. "Fine, fine, four days," he caves. "But if you tear your stitches, I'm gonna say I told you so."  
  


* * *

  
  
There are papers spread out over the kitchen table. Revello, Olberic, and Cyrus puzzle over them with identical expressions of concern. Primrose never thought she'd see the day when she saw Revello chewing on a problem with such intensity, especially not flanked by Olberic and Cyrus.  
  
"The people need leadership," Revello says. "And as corrupt as it was, the Obsidians provided the structure that Noblecourt needs. The quarreling houses, the citizenry depending on the certainty of who protects them— there's no rioting in the streets, but this is unsustainable."  
  
Cyrus sighs. "Quite a puzzle, indeed. The people need someone they already know they can trust."  
  
"Does the Azelhart name still mean anything?" Olberic asks. "It's been over ten years, but I've seen the authority of names last longer."  
  
"The people think I'm dead," Primrose replies. "I'm sorry, I can't be of any help here. I left before I could learn anything useful, and even if I had, I doubt I'd remember it."  
  
"Well, what if we reveal to them that you were merely in hiding," Cyrus suggests helpfully. "And you wouldn't have to take over ruling of Noblecourt if you don't want to. You could appoint a formal successor, and hand over control of the city to them. What would matter most is that the people see an Azelhart, a member of a house with a name they can trust, formally and publicly endorsing a new name."  
  
"Choosing that successor is another matter entirely," Olberic replies.  
  
Primrose rubs her temples. "Sorry, this is giving me a headache. I should probably lie down or something. Alfyn said I shouldn't strain myself too much."  
  
Revello chuckles paternally. "Don't worry about a thing, Lady Primrose," he promises. "While the question of who will run Noblecourt in the long-term is worth discussing, in the moment, Noblecourt needs order. The nobles need to be told the truth and convinced to cooperate independently, and the people need to know that, regardless of who it is, they will be protected."  
  
"I'm glad to know at least someone in this damn city has some sense," Primrose replies.   
  
Revello bows his head. "You do me honor, my lady. I'll never be Geoffrey, but I'll do my best to keep his city safe. Now, a more immediate issue, about the businesses left vacant with the Obsidians gone— Arianna's provided me with a list…"  
  


* * *

  
  
H'aanit rests in the chair next to Primrose's bed, despite having a guest room upstairs in the Forsythe's house. She has her thumb on Primrose's pulse. Her eyes are closed, but despite the late hour, she's not asleep.   
  
Primrose shifts, very slowly. Linde purrs, her head still on Primrose's stomach. H'aanit doesn't move.  
  
"I know you're awake," she murmurs.   
  
H'aanit opens her eyes. "Pray, how dost thou always see through me?"  
  
"I know you," Primrose replies. "There's a set in your brow that goes away when you sleep."  
  
"'Tis it there now?" H'aanit asks.  
  
"Mm-hmm," Primrose replies.   
  
"And… now?"  
  
Primrose smiles. "I don't think it's a thing you can get rid of by relaxing your face, no matter how much you try," she says.   
  
"Then methinks I just cannot lie to thee," H'aanit replies. She shrugs. "There art worse people to knoweth mine tells."  
  
Primrose squeezes her hand. "There are worse people to know as well as I know you," she replies. "And I'm glad to know you, H'aanit. Knowing that you're here, keeping me steady, is…" she falters. "I don't know if I'd be as focused as I am now without you here."  
  
H'aanit shakes her head. "Thou underestimatest thyself."  
  
"No, I know it for true," Primrose insists. She breathes, looking at the ceiling in the dark. "I don't think I've said enough how much you all matter to me. How much it means that you've all been by my side, even when I didn't appreciate it. Thank you."  
  
It's a weight off her chest that Primrose hadn't even known she was carrying. (She wonders, then, if telling Yusufa how much she cared while she was still alive would've made it hurt less when she died. Did Yusufa die thinking that Primrose was only ambivalent towards her, and it was enough for her that Primrose was the only person in her life who hadn't shunned her or hurt her? Did she die without knowing that she deserved to be loved?)  
  
H'aanit shakes her head. "I cannot sayeth for the others, but… for myself, 'tis nothing to thank. Men art but beasts, but even beasts looketh out for one another in the forest— the forest of men just happens to be bigger."  
  
She rubs her thumb over Primrose's knuckles. "Doth this pleaseth thee?" she asks, her voice a quiet murmur in the softly-humming symphony of the city night. It's warm, to Primrose, warm as the blankets and the cloak that she always wears.   
  
Primrose nods. "Don't let me go," she murmurs. "I'd forgotten how nice it could be to touch someone."  
  
"On mine honor, I will stay," H'aanit promises. "As long as thou shalt have me."  
  


* * *

  
  
They leave in four days, just like Primrose had insisted. Four days, and she feels alright enough to grit her teeth through how much it hurts to move. She says it's fine, and it is, because the only thing that matters is getting up to Everhold and stabbing Simeon where the sun don't shine. (She's well aware that Alfyn can see right through her, but he hasn't said anything, and Primrose isn't about to.)  
  
Anna Forsythe hands her a tin of cookies. "Jan made them himself," she insists, before Primrose can protest. "You wouldn't want to hurt his feelings, would you?"  
  
Jan, taller than both his parents but still slouching like the boy Primrose knew eleven years ago, flushes. "Aw, _ma_ , c'mon."  
  
Primrose chuckles. "Thank you," she says. "You're too kind to us."  
  
"Oh, darling, it was no trouble," Anna insists. "You're like family. Though I admit it was very strange having seven extra people in the house, but, well, the more the merrier, right?" She smiles brightly.  
  
Primrose's heart aches. "Thank you," she says again.  
  
"We're gonna wanna head through Rippletide," Alfyn's saying, looking at a map. "Hey, Primrose, we're going, right? We'll want to get through the Coastlands before high tide rolls in. Traffic's awful on the higher roads around then."  
  
Something occurs to Primrose. "Where's Revello?" she asks. "Is he back out with the people?"  
  
"Not yet," Revello calls. He hurries down the front steps to meet Primrose at the gate. "I had to see you off, of course. Noblecourt can surely wait for that."  
  
Primrose nods. "Revello," she says. "I've heard rumors about who the people want as their next leader. Therion's a very helpful source, and all."  
  
Revello frowns. "Who? I should like to speak with them."  
  
"He's been here the whole time," Primrose says. "He's the one who's been leading Noblecourt through the trouble in the past week. The one who stepped up to try and maintain order when nobody else did."  
  
Jan nudges him. "She's talking about _you_ , dad."  
  
Revello blinks. "About… you think… Lady Primrose, I…"  
  
"You were in my father's trusted inner circle," Primrose replies. "You were the good, trustworthy lieutenant-commander of the watch. Everywhere I've heard your name mentioned, it's been about your faith and honesty. I can think of no one else capable and honorable enough to rebuild Noblecourt into the city my father was so proud of when he lived."  
  
Revello blinks again. He kind of looks like he's about to cry. "Thank you, Lady Primrose," he manages, his voice about three octaves higher than normal.   
  
Primrose chuckles. "Don't thank me yet… Lord Forsythe."   
  
Anna pats his shoulder. "Don't worry about a thing, dear," she says. "I'll keep him in line. You're making a good choice, and I'm sure the people will agree."  
  
"Oh, well, in the end, it's up to them," Primrose replies. "But I think it's likely they'll make the right choice, too. Now you know you have my complete support as an Azelhart, whatever that name still means."  
  
"It means more than you may think," Anna replies. "Regardless of your name, though, know that you'll always have a home here, with us. Noblecourt will be here for you when you return."  
  
"We're ready when you are, Primrose," Alfyn calls. H'aanit, next to him, hefts Primrose's bag over her shoulder. Feeling stirs in the pit of her stomach, a twisted mess of hurt and anger and nausea and anxiety, craving blood and vengeance and terrified of whose blood she'll spill, and in the middle of it all, the grieving little girl that she never stopped being, down inside; the grieving little girl that never got to mourn her father properly. Primrose is so close to the goal she's pursued for ten years, to the end of the cause that saw her suffer through never-ending indignity and suffering, holding tight to her faith like the helm of a ship tossed around in a storm. She breathes  
  
"I suppose I ought to get going, then," Primrose says. "Everhold awaits."


	9. Free to Bloom Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, fuck limericks in particular

Primrose knows they've reached Everhold before they even see the city limits, because she starts to see fliers tacked up onto the posts marking cart and carriage stops on the road in the midst of what is otherwise just pastures full of sheep and goats. Primrose tears one down to take a look at it. The rest of the team crowds around her shoulders. The script is fancy and flowing, and the illustration is a print in stark black ink of two people, presumably a man and a woman. The man is in fancy noble clothing and the woman is in a dancer costume, but one that's too elaborate to actually dance in. She's lying in the man's arms, her body limp, a knife in her hand, and the man is on one knee. Primrose feels uncomfortable just looking at it.  
  
"'Everhold's Moonsorrow Theater presents a new epic tragedy of death, vengeance, and intrigue,'" Therion reads in deadpan. "' _Dance of the Fallen Star_ , written and directed by none other than Everhold's own genius playwright, poet, actor, and storyteller, Immortal Master of the Stage, Simeon Moonsorrow.'"  
  
"Immortal Master of the Stage?" Tressa snorts.  
  
"He never told _me_ his last name was Moonsorrow," Primrose mutters.  
  
"Oh, shit, I can say this now!" Alfyn realizes. "What a fucking revolting son of a bitch."  
  
Ophilia thumps him. "Don't insult Simeon's mother like that," she says. "It's hardly her fault her son is a pretentious, sadistic sociopath."  
  
Therion whistles. "Aw, man, Cream Puff has some fire in her. Fuckin' roasted."  
  
"Well, now we know where to find him," Olberic says. "He certainly isn't subtle, is he?"  
  
Primrose frowns at the flier. "This is definitely a trap," she says. "Maybe you should all stay behind."  
  
"What, and let you walk into a trap on your own?" Alfyn snorts. "Not a chance."  
  
"He'll be expecting all of you to come with me," she says. "And I don't want to _think_ about what he might have planned for you. I'll be fine," she promises. "I've fought worse people than Simeon alone and lived to tell."  
  
"Sure, but," Therion says, his voice unusually gentle. "You don't have to be alone anymore."  
  
Primrose feels emotion threatening to spill out from behind her eyes. She huffs and folds her arms. "Well," she mutters. "I guess you all can come along if you really _want_ to. It's not like I can stop you."  
  
A part of her still wonders what she ever did to deserve friends like them.  


  
  
Everhold's amphitheater looms in the center of town, not just because it's an amphitheater, but because it's a refurbished castle. Because of course it is, because Simeon owns the city and can do whatever he wants. There are people, and all of them seem to purposefully ignore it. All of them seem to ignore the travelers, too. It might be that they just see the look in Primrose's eye and decide that it'd probably be better for them, in general, if they didn't get in her way.  
  
There is no one within three blocks of the theater. There are no lines. There is no chatter. There's a big sign that tells the city ignoring it that they're now showing _Dance of the Fallen Star_ — by Simeon, in case you forgot him, by some miracle. Primrose is pretty sure there's no one in the ticket booths, until she walks past them and sees something _OH GODS IT'S A CORPSE_ it's a mannequin. Of course. Naturally. What else could it be.  
  
Primrose puts a hand over her beating heart. "You and your mannequins, Simeon," she mutters, looking disdainfully at the wooden human-shaped figure slumped on a stool in the ticket booth, wearing some a faded velvet uniform and a pillbox hat.  
  
"Awfully intricate mannequin," Olberic remarks. "Like a giant marionette, more like."  
  
Tressa leans in through the ticketing window and knocks the mannequin's hat off. "Ha. Take that."  
  
"You sure showed it," Therion drawls.  
  
"Creepy," Ophilia mumbles. "It's always the handsome boys that end up being creeps, isn't it?"  
  
"Mm, a shame," Primrose replies. "He's tall enough to be your type." To which Ophilia blushes and mumbles something unintelligible.  
  
Therion nods to get her attention. "Hey," he says.  
  
"Hey," Primrose replies. "What do you need?"  
  
"I don't trust this place," he says, nodding to the refurbished castle. "I mean, I guess that'd be pretty obvious, considering that it's home base for Stuffy McShitdick himself, but I get the feeling that this isn't gonna be a typical fight."  
  
"I'll be fine, Therion," Primrose promises.  
  
"Oh, yeah, 'course," Therion agrees readily. "But still. Here."  
  
He unbuckles the hidden knife from around his arm and holds it out to Primrose.  
  
Primrose blinks. "What? No, that's yours. I couldn't."  
  
"Yeah, and I'm loaning it to you 'cuz I wanna see your Immortal Master of Self-Important Bastardocity get it where it hurts," Therion replies. "And, I dunno, there's a chance he'll disarm you before you can stab him with your family knife. It's a little harder to knock this thing off in battle, you know? Now hold out your arm."  
  
Primrose does, letting Therion buckle it onto her arm. "And I can assume you've got some knives of your own?"  
  
Therion chuckles. "Who do you think I am? Never leave home without 'em."  
  
Primrose flexes her wrist. The blade slides out. She does it again and slides it back in. She resists the urge to pretend to jab with it a few times and instead rolls her shoulders and nods back towards the castle. "Well, then, I'll be sure to give this back to you when I'm done. I think it's time to attend his show, don't you think?"  
  
The lobby is elegant but empty, all done up in and black and silver, velvets and silks in violet and blue and red and green, low candlelight from the sconces on the walls and crystal ceiling chandeliers. The candles still flicker. There are no mannequins in sight. An overture, muffled by distance and sawdust in the walls, begins its slow-growing hum, the sound seeping into the air like mist rolling in.  
  
"Magic permeates the very air," Cyrus murmurs. "I suggesst that we step carefully. We know now the kind of man that Simeon is."  
  
"Great," Tressa shudders. "I always wanted to delve into a theater full of mannequins run by an egomaniacal creep that sweats magic."  
  
"It's prolly not _full_ of mannequins," Alfyn says, making for the curtained archway. "I mean, maybe a _couple_ , but that'd still be a lotta mannequins. It'd get real expensive and inefficient, I'd think, settin' all of it u—"  
  
Every seat contains a mannequin. They're floppy and collapsed in each seat, all individually dressed in faded, moth-eaten formalwear. Thin wires connect their joints to something in the ceiling. They travelers are in the dress circle, under the balconies, but the stalls are the same, and there's billions of wires all leading up, up, into a ceiling obscured by a churning black cloud of dark magic. The mannequins in the orchestra pit are actually moving, playing dented and broken instruments but making the sounds of a real orchestra. The mannequin conductor with a broken baton and a tailcoat full of holes holds up its arms. It goes still, bringing the orchestra to silence.  
  
"A couple of mannequins," Therion repeats. "A _couple_."  
  
"Listen!" Alfyn protests. "Like I could fuckin' accurately guess what this sicko has planned! I'm not some— some _psychomologist_ or whatever!"  
  
The lights go down. A spotlight shines from the top of the theater onto the stage, illuminating in its circle of light a tall, pale man in dark colors and a thick scarf around his neck. The mannequin audience claps.  
  
Simeon raises his hand and waves to the audience. "I thank you all for attending," he says. "Especially my eight very special guests."  
  
He snaps his fingers. The exit disappears.  
  
"You see, I'm quite fond of this play," he says. "It was inspired by somebody very dear to me. My muse, if you will. I'm very pleased that she's in attendance this evening, for the first showing of my latest epic tragedy."  
  
"You mean, aside from what you've made my life?" Primrose shouts from the dress circle, clenching her fists around the railing.  
  
Simeon smiles. "Indeed, my dear," he says. "I've got _so_ much planned for tonight's show. Eight whole acts, in fact, and a very special addition after the show is over. I do hope you'll all stay… though I suppose you don't have a choice, do you?"  
  
He chuckles, aching in its familiarity but at the same time like a cold finger down Primrose's spine. Primrose's hands tremble. Her side burns under the bandages, like it's festering despite Primrose knowing that Alfyn and Ophilia took great care to make sure that wouldn't happen. Maybe it's some kind of poison in her blood that he put there, while he was at it.  
  
"I'll kill you," she growls, despite the tremor in her voice.  
  
"Will you?" Simeon replies, almost amused. "You didn't succeed before."  
  
"You fucking _stabbed_ me in the back!" Primrose screams at him, loud, louder than she's used to being, but gods if he doesn't deserve every bit of malice she crams into the words she hurls at him.  
  
"Oh, what, do you think you'll do better this time?" he asks. "Do you think your little _band_ will help you? Or will you come to realize the truth that you belonged to me the whole time?"  
  
Primrose feels like she can't breathe. She doesn't want to kill him anymore. She wants to give up and run back to Noblecourt and tell her father's tombstone that she failed to avenge him because she's a coward and a failure a—  
  
H'aanit's hand comes to rest atop hers. A promise. An anchor to the world.  
  
Primrose breathes. She takes H'aanit's hand and brings it to her cheek, the blunt roughness of her palms a reminder to her that she doesn't have to do it alone. She says nothing. She doesn't need to.  
  
She swallows. She looks back towards Simeon. "Maybe I couldn't stop you before," she says. "But I was alone. Not anymore."  
  
Simeon chuckles. Dread lurches in the pit of her stomach. "Oh," he says. "Aren't you?"  
  
And then there is emptiness where H'aanit was, and darkness where her friends were, and silence where the noise had been, and it is dark, and cold, and she is alone.  


* * *

  
  
Simeon's mannequins move across the stage, puppets on strings tied to his fingers. There's a dark bedroom, a fireplace, one lying in bed and two standing to the side, and a small bundle in one puppet's arms. Primrose is in one of the seats in the audience— the best seat, right at the front, with a view of all the action. Simeon's in the next seat over, his fingers laced over his lap. They're the only two seats, actually— everywhere else, there's smoky darkness.  
  
Primrose's breath heaves unsteady in her chest. She feels sick, and for once, she's glad that she didn't eat breakfast. "H'aanit?" she calls, looking into the darkness as if she might find something. "Therion? Alfyn? Tressa?"  
  
"Don't bother, dear Primrose," Simeon tells her. "They're quite busy with my puppets. I can't have uninvited guests barging into my show, after all. They simply have no theater manners at all."  
  
"You sick fucking creep," Primrose hisses. "I'll kill you. I'll _kill_ you—"  
  
She stops making any sound. Her mouth moves and she feels herself shouting, as if shouting louder will break through the spell, but nothing happens. There is only silence.  
  
Simeon holds a finger to his lips. "I would suggest you shelve that anger for now, my dear," he says. "You're not going to leave this theater, you see. But you needn't worry. I'm only after you. I couldn't care less about what happens to your friends— if, for some reason, they find their way to me, and attack, then I will fight back, of course. But, and this seems more likely, if they turn around and run away, then I will let them. They simply are not worth my energy."  
  
As he speaks, he twirls his hand through the air, purple smoke streaming from his fingertips. Primrose sees the illusion fade and she sees her friends, looking around for where she went, but there's nothing there.  
  
I'm right here, she wants to scream. She does scream it. But it may as well have been quieter than a whisper.  
  
The illusion goes back up. "So, you see, everything will be just fine," Simeon promises. "Now, for the show." He snaps his fingers. She's sitting in the chair and Simeon is next to her.  
  
"Ah, and here, we begin our story," he says. "It's the story of a young woman's life. Not particularly original, I'll admit, but I do hope you'll enjoy it regardless, my dear. I did write it for you."  
  
Primrose lunges, aiming to plunge her knife into Simeon's heart. Her wrist stops. There's a rope of mist keeping her from moving, impossibly strong, and no matter how hard she tries, she can't pull free.  
  
"Now, now, none of that," he says. "I didn't want to have to do this, but I simply can't have you disrupting the show. And considering that it's the last one you'll ever see, why don't you sit back and enjoy it?"  
  
_I'll kill you_ , she yells, the sound absorbed by the silence. _I'll fucking— kill you—_  
  
"Ah?" Simeon holds a hand up to his ear. "What was that? You want to kill me? Mm, well, you'll have to wait for the intermission to try. In the meantime, it's quite rude to talk over a show."  
  
Her throat hurts, and she's not sure if it's from straining her voice through the spell or from emotion welling up in her core.

 

* * *

  
  
The puppets are people, and the bundle cries.  
  
Her father stands before her, thirteen years younger than he was when he died. There are fewer lines in his brow. This must be before he started frowning so much. There's her mother in the bed, and the midwife, the physician who delivered the baby. Her cry is strong, and her color is healthy. It's said that newborns with strong cries end up being strong people, but there's no telling how true that is.  
  
"Primrose Azelhart," Geoffrey Azelhart murmurs, taking the newborn from the midwife. "Yes, I like that."  
  
In the bed, her brow sweaty, her mother hums. "It suits her," she says. Primrose has seen paintings of her mother, but she never quite got just how alike they look until she sees her in person— so to speak.  
  
"She'll be a fine heir," Geoffrey decides. He cradles baby Primrose against his breast with a gentleness that makes the memory ache. "Kind and strong and just in equal measure."  
  
"Oh, Geoffrey," her mother chides. "She's not even an hour old. You put too much weight upon her shoulders."  
  
"Only because I know she can carry all she needs, and never be encumbered," her father replies. "She's strong, like her mother."  
  
Dahlia rolls her eyes. "Flatterer."  
  
"Why would you accuse me of such a thing?" Geoffrey replies. "You wound me, darling."  
  
Dahlia reaches up, and Geoffrey places baby Primrose in her mother's arms. She's tired herself out of crying, and she's decided that it's time to sleep. It's hard work, after all, entering the world. Dahlia pushes a thin brown curl from the baby's brow.  
  
"You're going to make us so proud, little one," she murmurs. "You're going to be incredible."  


* * *

  
  
"How touching," Simeon purrs. "It seems your parents loved you very much. They had such high hopes, you know. I suppose it would hurt them quite a bit to know what becomes of you."  
  
He shakes his head. "Seeing one's child go through such horrors would break any parent's heart. In that sense, it's fortunate that they never saw what became of you."  
  
"It's fortunate that they never found out it was your doing," Primrose replies icily. "Vengeance runs in the Azelhart blood."  
  
Simeon chuckles. "Oh, I know it does, my dear," he says. "That's what makes it interesting, you see. There would hardly be any drama if you all simply took it lying down."  


* * *

  
  
Primrose sees herself as a little girl— seven or eight, maybe; the age where you're little but don't like being told as much— with missing teeth and scraped knees and ribbons in her hair. She twirls in front of the tall mirror on the wall of her father's study, imagining voluminous skirts and princess crowns, as little girls are wont to do. Primrose remembers this— she'd just started ballet lessons, and hadn't yet learned about the stage fright that she wouldn't get over until Sunshade.  
  
"Father, look!" she crows, holding her arms out. "Did you see? Did you see?"  
  
Her father chuckles, standing from his work desk. "I do see," he says. "My, wherever did you learn to dance like that?"  
  
Primrose giggles. "That's a silly question," she says. "I learned it in class!"  
  
"Ah, of course, of course," her father nods. He musses her hair affectionately. "You're practicing very hard. It's no wonder your teacher says you're a natural."  
  
She preens. "I like dancing," she says. "Did you know there are lots of kinds of dances, father? I'm going to be good at them all!"  
  
Her father chuckles. "A fine goal to have," he says.  
  
"And after I've done that," she decides. "I'll be the next governor of Noblecourt, like you, father!"  
  
"That sounds like a fine plan, little one," her father says. "It'll be hard work, you know."  
  
"Don't worry about me," Primrose promises. "I can handle anything. 'Cause you taught me how!"  
  
Geoffrey Azelhart smiles, and looking at him now, through the recollections Simeon drags up from the murky depths of her memory, his smile is sorrowful, forlorn. And yet, there's love in it that makes Primrose's heart ache. She supposes she never did stop grieving for him. She doesn't think she ever will.  


* * *

  
  
"A good man, Lord Geoffrey," Simeon admits. It's a stage again, and there are mannequins in costume lit up by spotlights animated by the same magic that Simeon has running the entire theater. "Quite a shame he had to die."  
  
"Do you mean that, or are you lying to me like you lied to me all my life?" Primrose replies.  
  
Simeon bares his teeth in a pale-lipped grin. "We call it acting, dear Primrose. Are we not all players upon the stage of the world?"  
  
"Well, then, get ready," she hisses. "Because I'm going to make sure it's curtains for you."  


* * *

  
  
The scenes pass. She's eight, ten, twelve. She grows and her nursemaid marks her height against the kitchen doorframe. She makes friends and loses them and gains more in the rapidly-changing social landscape of grade school. For the years it lasts, her childhood is long and carefree, with the privileges a noble girl would have. The world is kind, then, and her biggest worries are friendships and book reports and ballet practice. It's a time when she gets a glass of milk before bed and maybe gets to stay up another half-hour if she smiles sweetly enough, when her Azelhart dagger is not a weapon but a symbol of her name and what it means, when there may be monsters in the closet and bad dreams in her head but when she's scared she can run down the hall to her father and he'll keep them all away. She is young and her problems are real to her, as they are when you're young, but they're the problems of a child that can afford to have a childhood.  
  
In her memory, she's twelve. She's not afraid of snakes or spiders like her friends are, but she cries at solo presentations or performances and no amount of practice can shake the habit. Admittedly, it's better than it used to be, but she's twelve years old and it's embarrassing to cry at school. She doesn't want to keep being afraid of the spotlight, but the only way to stop is to practice and get better at it, and she doesn't want to do that, either. It's a terrible catch-22 and Primrose hates it not just because it's embarrassing to cry at school, but because being the governor of Noblecourt involves talking to lots of different people while they all look at you and pay attention to everything you do and it's awful because you don't know them so you don't know if they're actually secretly laughing at you.  
  
Young Primrose is aware that there are worse problems to have, but she's also twelve, so that doesn't actually matter.  
  
The memory is one in the garden, in her favorite spot in the gazebo that provided hours of play as a younger child and welcome talks with Simeon when she got older. It almost seems like another person, when Primrose sees herself trying to practice for a dance recital with Simeon's help.  
  
"It's useless, I'll never be able to give the performance," she hiccups, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hand. "I'll cry and stop the show and everyone will laugh at me and I won't have any friends anymore 'cause nobody likes a crier."  
  
"Ah, high stakes," he says. It's when, at least to Primrose's knowledge, he's still a fairly new hire at the Azelhart household. He hates his job, though, and says he's only doing it to keep afloat while he's trying to get his plays or poems published. Primrose has lots of friends, but she likes Simeon best. She's not sure why. He just always seems to know exactly how to make her feel better.  
  
Primrose nods miserably, rubbing her forearm across her eyes despite knowing it's unbecoming. She leans against the railing of the gazebo in the garden. She's supposed to be practicing  and Simeon's supposed to be trimming hedges, but, obviously, neither of them are doing that.  
  
"There's no need to cry, my dear," Simeon tells her. "But I understand. You just haven't reached your full potential yet."  
  
Primrose looks up. "Potential?"  
  
"Why, yes," Simeon nods, hopping up to sit on the railing with his ankles crossed. "You see, every great star or icon begins by doubting themselves, being afraid of being seen. Unfortunately, it's a difficult world out there. All too often, true talent is ignored in favor of the tempestuous nature of the busy world we live in. Or worse, judged as being too strange for breaking the creative mold."  
  
"That's awful," Primrose says. "And not fair. If they're good, then people should appreciate them."  
  
Simeon shrugs. "Such is the way life goes sometimes. But there are people like us who understand talent when they see it. Do you trust me, Primrose?"  
  
"Of course," she says. "Why?"  
  
"Because," he replies. "I can tell you were meant to inspire others. You've yet to grow into it, but you have the bearing of one who thrives in the spotlight. It'd be a shame if a talent such as yours stayed hidden out of fear."  
  
Primrose looks down. "I dunno," she admits.  
  
"Ah, well, you'll see one day," Simeon promises. "But I know you're an inspiration to me, certainly. In fact, I've written a poem that I think you'll like quite a lot."  
  
"I like all your poems," she says matter-of-factly. "What's this one?"  
  
Simeon smiles, clears his throat, and begins:  
  
_"There once was a girl from the Flatlands,_  
_Afraid of what talent demands._  
_I told her fear not,_  
_You know what you've been taught,_  
_And now she perfectly understands."_  
  
Primrose claps her hands and giggles. "Is that one about me, Simeon?"  
  
"Now wherever would you get that idea?" Simeon remarks.  
  
"You said I was an inspiration!" Primrose says, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "That means I give you ideas for poems and stuff."  
  
"Oh, I did say that," Simeon recalls. "I just can't hide anything from you, can I?"  
  
Primrose giggles. "Can I hear another poem, Simeon? Pretty please?"  
  
Simeon sighs, though his smile is indulgent. "Oh, I suppose. Since you asked so nicely."  
  
"Is there more of that one about the cat?" Primrose asks. "I like that one."  
  
"For you, my dear, there certainly can be," Simeon chuckles. "Now, where was I…"  


* * *

  
  
Simeon grimaces. "Mm, I could've done better with that," he admits. "Limericks were never my strongsuit. You simply can't tell a good story in five lines."  
  
"Maybe you just like the sound of your own voice too much to try," Primrose replies, venom in her words. But she knows by the smug look on Simeon's face that she's not fooling him, that he knows exactly the degree of the pain he's stirring up.  
  
He puts a hand over his chest in mock hurt. "You told me you _loved_ my poems," he says. "Were you lying to me?"  
  
She lunges over aiming to punch him, stab him, do something. The magic holds her still like something pinning her to the seat, just loose enough she can struggle and thrash all she likes, but tight enough that she can't touch Simeon, no matter how close she gets. She trembles and she doesn't know if it's from anger or fear.  
  
Simeon tuts. "So impatient," he says. "We're nearly to the intermission, my dear."  
  
"Do you relish my dagger in your heart so much that you count the scenes until it hits?" Primrose growls.  
  
"Oh, now that's an excellent line," he remarks. "You inspire me yet again."  
  
She clenches her teeth. "My father should've fired you the minute he saw you talking to me," she says.  
  
"Ah, that would've saved quite a bit of trouble, wouldn't it?" Simeon replies. "But, alas, that didn't happen."  
  
Primrose smiles without warmth. "Well, then, I'll be delighted to set things right."  


* * *

  
  
In the next scene, she isn't watching, she's living. She's thirteen again and her father had been working late, but she'd had a bad dream and needed comfort, and now she hides beneath his desk while he has the last conversation he'll ever see.  
  
She's thirteen again and she's had nightmares but this is all too real and it's ten long, long minutes of terror unlike anything she's ever felt. She's thirteen again and she's listening to her father die.  
  
She had forgotten quite a lot of the memory— ten years being unable to dwell upon one's memories for the sake of one's own sanity will do that. And here she is, living it again, the smell of blood in her nose and her knees pulled tight to her chest and her hands over her mouth, the ache of her chest as she dares not to breathe, the hard wood of the desk underside against her spine. The voices, indistinct through her own pounding heartbeat in her ears. The sickness, like she's on a ship during an ocean storm. The ringing, painful silence after they leave.  
  
The sight of her father's blood soaking the carpet. The bloody knives tossed carelessly aside. The ragged, dark holes in his chest. The blood on his lips. The eyes, staring at Primrose and looking like the eyes she remembers her father having but they look false, like someone replaced them with glass. It's horrible, horrible, and she wants to scream and cry as if it'll bring him back. But she doesn't do any of that. She can't move. She can't breathe.  
  
She remembers wondering if it's another nightmare.  
  
If it is, it still hasn't ended.  


* * *

  
  
The curtains slide shut on the end of act one. The mannequins all collapse with the clattering and crashing of instruments in the orchestra pit. The lights come back on. Primrose doesn't move.  
  
Simeon stands up and stretches. "Ah, short and sweet," he says. "I'm quite pleased the selection of scenes flowed together so nicely. How do you like it?"  
  
Primrose sucks in a breath. "How much are they seeing?" she says tightly.  
  
He shrugs. "They're seeing the mannequins. I've taken the liberty of changing all the names involved, obviously, and I've been tasteful in what I chose to put on the stage. I didn't have to be. There's enough material in your pretty head to fill page after page with depictions of sorrow." He takes her chin in his hand. She lunges out and punches him in the stomach.  
  
He coughs, taking a step back. "Well, that was uncalled for."  
  
She shakes her hand out and laughs, breathy, almost manic. "Get used to it, Simeon," she says, standing up from the theater seat. "Because there's more where that came from. I've always wanted to just beat the _shit_ out of some awful creep without repercussions, did you know that?"  
  
She grins dangerously. "Thank you for letting yourself be the first."  
  
Simeon arches an eyebrow. "Oh, really?" he says. The next instant, they're on the stage. Primrose draws her knife. It goes through smoke when she lunges.  
  
"Save your energy, my dear," he chuckles, appearing behind her. Primrose jumps and swings around, only to hit mist once more.  
  
"What, are you afraid I'll pull a muscle?" she snarls. "It's not going to stop me."  
  
"I just think," he begins. She feels his touch on her shoulder and jerks back reflexively, only to stumble right into him. "It would be so anticlimactic if you tired yourself out before the end of the show."  
  
She shoves him back and lunges at him with a shout, and again, he disappears into smoke. Her hands tremble. She's not afraid of him. She's _not_.  
  
If she says it enough, maybe she'll believe it.  
  
"I do imagine that the scenes your friends are seeing are close enough to what they know of you that they can extrapolate," Simeon muses. "But they're also quite busy, I imagine. You see, this castle happens to be the fortress in which I've honed my craft. Animation and illusion are my specialities, as you may have guessed by the mannequins."  
  
"And here I thought it was because you couldn't draw a real audience," Primrose replies. Simeon's face sours. For a fraction of a second Primrose regrets mouthing off and almost, almost flinches, but he moves on.  
  
He gestures grandly out to his theater. "Take a look," he says. "I've taken the liberty of granting you the ability to see through the illusion, as a small mercy."  
  
Primrose looks. The smoke clears. There are only two seats in the theater now, and her friends navigate open space, but the way they turn and twist makes it clear that what they see is a maze. Mannequins move towards them on wires, clattering and clicking. They've been separated— there's H'aanit and Therion, Alfyn and Olberic, and Cyrus, Ophilia, and Tressa. Simeon watches them with amusement.  
  
Without thinking, she sprints forwards. "Alfyn," she calls. "Alf—"  
  
Her voice disappears. She clutches her throat and turns, only to see Simeon holding up a hand with that insufferably smug grin painted on his face.  
  
Alfyn looks around towards the sound of her voice. "Primrose? Where are you? I can't see anything."  
  
She stops. She feels something cold around her wrist, and then she's back on the stage, and she realizes that it's Simeon's hand. She yanks it away only for a chain of mist to grab it again. The illusion goes up again, and Primrose is alone with Simeon once more.  
  
"My sincerest apologies, my dear," he says. "But act two is about to begin, and it's very rude to talk during the show."  


* * *

  
  
In her memory, she is fourteen, and the world is no longer kind.  
  
The dancing she learns in Sunshade is very different from her ballet lessons, but it means she's in good shape, and she takes to it quickly. Even so, the lessons are difficult. The teacher isn't cruel, but she takes the "tough love" approach to teaching. Just like ballet lessons, there are eight girls in the class including Primrose. And, just like ballet lessons, Primrose is excellent in practice but balks at the idea of going onstage for real.  
  
Unlike ballet lessons, though, this is a big problem. The dancers are what bring people to Sunshade. Dancers bring people, people bring money, and money keeps Sunshade afloat— and more importantly and more immediately, for the dancers, it keeps Master Helgenish happy.  
  
Primrose slumps against the wall, dropping onto the bedroll next to Yusufa. She thinks Yusufa is probably the best thing about Sunshade. She's kind and sweet and knows all the hiding spots in the city because she has lots of experience in running and hiding. Yusufa is also at the absolute bottom of Sunshade's pecking order, a concept that Primrose is vaguely familiar with, having gone to an all-girls' school, but never thought it could apply to entire towns.  
  
"I think you did really good," Yusufa tells her. "Madame Anya says you're perfectly suited to dancing, or something. It's probably something good. There's just the—"  
  
"Stage fright," Primrose grumbles. "Whatever. It doesn't matter. I'll just imagine the audience in their smallclothes or something."  
  
Yusufa considers this. "I don't think that'd work," she says. "I mean, they're not going to let me onstage in a million years, but just, I don't know, thinking about it."  
  
"If I just keep trying, I'll get over it," Primrose shrugs it off. "The show goes on regardless of how good I am at it. I just have to keep up and learn to stay that way, so I can get onstage with the real dancers next year."  
  
"I guess," Yusufa admits. Primrose yanks off her sandals and the clattering jewelry, all brass pretending to be gold and glass pretending to be gems. She drops them with disgust onto the next bedroll over, where her school bag full of everything she took from Noblecourt sits. She's learned to tie it up very firmly and leave it somewhere she'll know if someone touched it, to keep the others from going through her things.  
  
"I wish we could trade," Yusufa sighs. "I'm an awful dancer, everyone says so. But I'm not scared of performing anyway— you know, trying to. They won't let me on the stage in a million years, of course."  
  
"They're all full of shit, you're a great dancer," Primrose replies frankly. "If I were performing for them, then it wouldn't matter, because I don't care what they think. But if I want to keep working here, then I have to get over myself."  
  
Yusufa hums. Primrose likes Yusufa, but she hates that Yusufa has a way of seeing right through her lies she tells both herself and the world.  
  
"You know, Madame Anya said this to me, and she probably meant for it to be hurtful, but I actually find it kind of comforting," Yusufa says. "So maybe you will, too."  
  
"Well, that's a ringing endorsement," Primrose snorts. "What'd she say?"  
  
"She said," Yusufa says. "That this is the real world, and nobody cares who you are as long as you give them what they want."  


* * *

  
  
She is fourteen. Her life is desert nights and thin bedrolls and other peoples' sweat on her skin, clattering jewelry and smiling at strangers and aching calves, sneers from dancers and stares from civilians and learning how to hide, cruelty using kind words but not bothering to masquerade, bruises on arms, backs, ribs, hollow aching in her throat and no tears to show for it. It's moving her hips to rhythm before she understands why. It's getting used to her place being the gutters and back alleys. It's the first bruises and welts and the first blow to the head that left her off-balance for weeks afterwards. It's makeup she's too young for and feelings she's too old for, painting her lips bright red and clutching her dagger like she used to hold a stuffed bear late at night when she lets herself cry. Her name matters little; saccharine pet names bounce around in her head like a cold refrain that won't leave, and on the worst days, her Azelhart dagger feels like something she stole off a little noble girl that died the moment she saw her father's corpse.  
  
But there is Yusufa, who teaches her how to run and how to hide and how to find those moments where she can feel like the child she both is and isn't, who smiles in reply to her standoffishness and tells her some of her favorite stories when Primrose doesn't want to talk. They're the youngest of the dancers in Helgenish's employ and are, as such, the lowest in a social order where everyone is cutthroat and desperate and out for themselves just to stay alive.  
  
Primrose remembers asking Yusufa why she bothers talking to her, since she could find a higher rank if she fought for it. Yusufa had only smiled, and shrugged, and said that she's always known she'd never be any higher than she is now, so it wasn't worth the effort to try. _I'm going to be right where I am for the rest of my life,_ she'd said. _I started in the dirt and that's where I'll die. But someone has to be the bottom so people like you can have a chance of getting to the top, right?_  
  
_That's horrible,_ Primrose had thought. _You're better than everyone else here by miles. You don't belong in this awful place at the bottom of the pile. If it were possible, I'd take you out of here myself and bring you back to Noblecourt and give you the comfortable life you deserve._  
  
She says so, once, when they're in one of Yusufa's hiding spots waiting for Helgenish to go back home, and Yusufa laughs.  
  
"You're kidding," she says. At the time Primrose had just rolled her eyes, but in the memory, in the memory her laugh is a fist in Primrose's gut, pulling at her heart like a bowstring, making it taut and never letting go. Primrose didn't realize how much that sound meant to her until she died, and the regret stings.  
  
Her father had told her that regrets are a human thing, but there's no use in dwelling upon them— _it's inevitable you'll do things you regret, as you pursue your goal,_ he'd said. _But there is no undoing the past, so stay focused and hold fast to your faith._ Often, she wonders what he'd say if he knew she let Yusufa die.  
  
"I'm not," Primrose says indignantly. "Really! I can take you back to Noblecourt and get you the fanciest dresses you want. The whole deal. You can leave this awful place behind and never look back."  
  
Yusufa laughs. "You're crazy," she says. "Come on, Primrose, I know you can pick a few pockets, but nobody's _that_ good a thief."  
  
"Alright, then, fine, say it'll never happen," Primrose shrugs. "That'll make it even better when I leave and bring you with me. You'll never have to see Helgenish or his yes-men or the tavern or any of those awful other girls ever again."  
  
Yusufa smiles sadly. "C'mon, Prim," she says. "There's no use in dreaming about things that'll never happen."  
  
"Well, if it'll never happen, then you never have to be disappointed when it doesn't turn out how you dreamed," Primrose replies. "So there."  


* * *

  
  
The old memories shift to newer ones— Primrose as an adult, all false smiles and pretty lies and bright colors worn like war paint. Red suits her. She'd worn pink as a child, and when she was still a new dancer. Pink for innocence, she'd been told, and she'd almost laughed at the irony. Red, now that was a color for her; blood and anger and the low burn of embers that haven't yet gone out. Simeon's only picked out the important memories, but he doesn't have to. Primrose can fill in the blanks herself.  
  
So she relives afternoons of practice and evenings in the tavern and late nights under the stars until she and Yusufa could sneak back to the dormitory without being noticed. She relives lying down pieces of herself to keep her place, the prime spot to bide her time and wait. She relives Sunshade, all over again, in the span of minutes.  
  
She relives the day Yusufa dies, and she leaves Sunshade behind to fall to sand and ruin.  


* * *

  
  
Act two is over. The lights come back on. Primrose thinks she might be able to speak again, but she doesn't know.  
  
"Ah, exquisite," Simeon sighs, leaning back in his seat. "Act two is merely the setup for the latter half of the play, yes, but I feel it's so important for conveying what you've overcome to get as far as you have. I'm quite proud of it."  
  
Primrose says nothing.  
  
Simeon clicks his tongue. "Oh, whatever is the matter, my dear? No witticisms this time?"  
  
"Shut up," Primrose mutters.  
  
"Oh?" He arches an eyebrow. "And you're not going to try to kill me, either? What a shame. I'd been looking forward to it. The expression you make when you lunge and then find yourself restrained, so close and yet so far, is more delicious than I'd ever hoped."  
  
Primrose chuckles. "No, no, I've realized how pointless that is. I think I'll just enjoy the rest of the show, and kill you when the curtains close. How about that?"  
  
Simeon taps his chin. "Poetic," he admits. "Ah, very well. I'll hold you to that, my dear."  
  
Primrose smiles at him. And then in an instant she's out of her seat, sprinting back towards where she knows her friends were, she knows it's all just an illusion and she can push through it if she tries, and she hears a voice that's low and steady and like a purring that Primrose didn't realize she craved until she heard it assuaging her worries and banishing her fears—  
  
She plunges into the mist. It's not real. _It's not_ _real_ —  
  
it's dark and swirling but she knows it's not real and she can see strawberry-blonde and a white fur cloak and—  
  
"H'aanit, H'aanit, it's me, I'm here—"  
  
and she reaches out her hand and she can almost see H'aanit turn and reach back towards her in disbelief, and she's so close, _so_ close, and—  
  
and nothing.  
  
She hits the stage with enough force to bruise. And Simeon stands over her, blinding in the stage lights, white and black and silver, his smile smug and amused and condescending, as if it tickles him how she thought that would work.  
  
"You wound me, my dear," he says, putting a hand to his chest. "After all my hard work? After I wrote all four acts of this play for you?"  
  
Primrose pounds the stage with her fist and swears. "I didn't ask for your fucking _play_ , Simeon," she growls. "I came here to either kill you or die trying, and if I go down, you can bet your ass that I'm taking you with me."  
  
Simeon clicks his tongue. "How soon you forget. Though, I suppose that's a given, with your memory." He shrugs. Primrose stands and lunges at him, knife in hand. Smoke catches her, holds her back. Her House Azelhart dagger falls from her hand and clatters onto the stage. Simeon picks it up. Primrose's blood boils.  
  
"That doesn't belong to you," she says, her breathing quick despite herself. "You don't deserve to even touch it."  
  
"It's quite cute how you think you have power over me," Simeon replies. In one swift movement, he tosses the dagger across the theater. It pins itself into a support column, too far for Primrose to get it.  
  
Simeon traces her jaw with his fingers. He snatches his hand away before Primrose can bite him, and she thinks she hates that most of all.  
  
"It seems I've stoked your spirit," he says. He chuckles. "Ah, yes, that always happens around the end of act two."  
  
Primrose goes from boiling rage to freezing cold. "Always?"  
  
"Oh? Did I not tell you?" Simeon realizes, arching an eyebrow. Then he grins.  
  
"You see, my dear," he says. "Nothing typical really holds my interest. I have no desire for a peaceful civilian existence as a merchant or a banker or what-have-you. Really, I don't even feel the desire to live as a simple playwright my entire life. Life is boring, dear Primrose, and that's why we have stories.  
  
"I _do_ write plays, but I don't consider myself on the level of playwrights who only write about characters, and not people. But I have a gift, honed over the years, and I have the entire criminal underworld wrapped around my finger. So, some time ago, I figured that I may as well use my gifts to find some form of amusement in this dull world.  
  
"So I ask you, my dear," he says, stepping closer and taking Primrose's chin in his hand once more, not letting her look away. Did you _really_ think you were the first woman I'd ever loved?"  
  
It's hard to breathe. Primrose feels his touch again— it's light and glancing over her jawline, sending shivers down her spine, and she hates it. She almost wishes it was harsh and bruising just so she'd know it wasn't her lonely imagination.  
  
"Don't fucking touch me," she grinds out.  
  
"So violent," Simeon clicks his tongue. "Well, perhaps the next act of the show will be better. Do you like the memories of killing your marks better than you do those of Sunshade and all its horrors? Or are you not sure? Ah, well, no matter— we'll find out."  
  
Primrose swallows hard and shakes her head. "I should've let Linde tear your arm off," she mutters.  
  
"Fascinating, my dear," Simeon replies. "Well, then, I think it's time to move along. We've still two more acts to go through."  


* * *

  
  
"You got something wrong," Primrose notices. "I'm right there, but my friends aren't."  
  
"Artistic license, my dear," Simeon replies.  
  
They're watching act three. It's a play within a play. The roles that Primrose's friends filled when they were in Noblecourt are nameless actors credited as "actor #1," "actor #2," and so on. Simeon must've enjoyed a chance to write about his other play, considering how much he likes hearing himself talk. The rest of the team hasn't been in the play at all, because the character representing Primrose has been traveling alone. Now that she thinks of it, Simeon's skimming past her memories with them— scattering Yusufa's ashes with Alfyn, stealing the customs ledger in Goldshore with Therion, Tressa and Olberic and H'aanit looking for her after she disappeared in Stillsnow, Saintsbridge, Wellspring, back up around to Noblecourt. Alfyn's attempted handshake in Sunshade and the hand she accepted in the Wellspring black market. Linde sleeping on the end of her bed. H'aanit, strong and stable and just an arm's reach away, holding her hand while they slept. Tressa's crossbow. Rehearsal with Cyrus and Olberic. Dress fitting with Ophilia. Yusufa's bangles and peach pies and planning out routes and telling stories at campfires between towns.  
  
Primrose remembers them. She wants to think about them, not the horrible loneliness the play is giving her. And yet, Simeon's hand is firmly in her memory, and he can move things around like chess pieces and convince her that it's real.  
  
_It's not real,_ she thinks, as she watches a memory of herself staying up all night alone while camped between Duskbarrow and Victor's Hollow. There is no Goldshore. There is no disagreement in Saintsbridge and resolution in Wellspring. There is only Primrose and her map and vengeance that burns cold in her chest.  
  
It hurts. Loneliness hurts.  
  
"You don't need my help with this, dear Primrose," Simeon murmurs to her memories. "You've never been part of the group. There was never a team. Really, you're not cut out to associate with their like."  
  
"You're wrong," Primrose says. She clenches her fists and grips the armrests of the stupid theater chair. "You're wrong. You're _wrong_ —" but every time she says it it gets harder to believe.  
  
Simeon tuts. "Ah, your memory," he says. "You know it's never been good, my dear. I can't _believe_ you forgot all those moments we shared."  
  
"Fuck you," Primrose spits. Something in her mind aches like he's pulling on a rope behind her eyes. It takes all the effort she has to focus completely on the mannequins on the stage and not let him dig back into her memories.  
  
"So harsh," he says. "Oh, of course, it's not my problem, because you won't live past act four, but perhaps if you'd gotten hit on the head a few more times, you'd remember those wonderful moments."  
  
Primrose shakes her head. "It's not real," she repeats, more to herself than anyone else. "You can't change things, Simeon. I know what the truth is."  
  
She feels fear grasp her in its talons the instant before the pulling is a painful yanking, breaking her concentration and pulling her in. It's slow, like towing a barge stuck on a sandbar, but it's moving and she can't get a good foothold in anything to resist the pull of the empty darkness below, and she's slipping, and there's nothing to catch her, and—  
  
down,  
  
down,  
  
down.  


* * *

  
  
The stage lights come on. Primrose stands, front and center, facing the crowd of mannequins. The illusion is gone. She sees the rest of her friends scattered across the theater— in the stalls, in the dress circle, in the balconies. She opens her mouth to call to them, because she's _right here_ , and they can _see_ her, but—  
  
Simeon claps his hands behind her. Primrose flinches, but turns, reaching habitually for a dagger that's still embedded in a pillar too far away to get to.  
  
"Welcome," he announces. "To the final act."  
  
"So nice of you to script your own death," Primrose replies. Her voice is shaky despite herself, and her hands are trembling. Her knees feel weak. She clenches her fist and cracks her neck, forcing herself to keep standing. It worked in Sunshade. It'll work now.  
  
"And how are you feeling, after all of that?" Simeon asks, almost sounding concerned. "Usually, by this point, I needn't do any actual work. The theater of the mind is a powerful place, you see. If you can break one's mind, you can essentially do whatever you want."  
  
"Will you stop acting like I care about your fucking philosophy lessons?" Primrose snaps.  
  
"Ah, you're trembling," Simeon notices. He chuckles. "I've gotten somewhere, I see. You must tell me, how was it?"  
  
_Horrible_ , is what she thinks. She'd forgotten some of those memories, the worst ones that Simeon didn't put onstage but dredged up just by poking at the right threads. And she'd relived it with the added weight of the knowledge of who and what she'd become, with the pain of knowing that the girl who made it bearable is ashes scattered in the desert sand and a pair of battered bracelets with a name scratched on the insides with a pin. She won't deny that it's shaken her. She won't deny, either, that any of this has left her unscathed. She won't pretend that she'll be unchanged after all of this— some people were just never meant to bear the burden of taking a life, and Primrose, despite barreling ever onwards without stopping for any reason, is one of them. She won't pretend that she's certain in who she'll be when Simeon is dead.  
  
But she's still here. She's still here, and she's not alone. She's still here, and her hand comes to rest upon the bracer around her arm. She silently thanks Therion for having the foresight to give her another knife.  
  
Primrose takes a shaky breath. When she looks up, she gives Simeon a grin.  
  
"Is that all you can do?" she says.  
  
Simeon's smug smile drops. "What?"  
  
"You heard me," Primrose replies. "Was that the best you have, Simeon? Dredging up memories I've already lived through?" She forces a chuckle, and it comes out more easily than she would've expected.  
  
"Excuse me," Simeon says icily. A part of Primrose flinches from the tone but the rest of her stands firm, her smile not wavering. "But are you implying that you want me to show you all I can do to your memories? My dear, given the time, I could scramble your mind so thoroughly you would forget your own name."  
  
"I can make a girl forget her own name without any fancy telepathy," Primrose replies with a smirk. "Usually because she's too busy saying mine."  
  
Simeon sighs. "Ah, innuendo. Classy."  
  
Primrose clicks her tongue. "Simeon, you poor fool. There is _nothing_ you could do to me that I haven't already seen in my nightmares."  
  
Simeon clenches his fists, but for once, he's at a loss for words.  
  
"My own mind has imagined what-ifs and would-bes since my first night in Sunshade," Primrose continues. "I've lived through days where the only thing stronger than my fear of my horrible dreams coming true is the name on my dagger. I've carried the weight of the worst parts of society on my back before I was old enough to know what any of it meant. I've lain awake for hours imagining everything you could think of and worse, all twisting together into a nightmarish mess that I don't know if I've forgotten or if it just isn't part of me. I have seen _everything_ you could ever show me and I am _still_ _here_ , standing before you, alive and smiling."  
  
She breathes again. It's easier this time.  
  
"I'm not afraid of you, Simeon," she says. "If I could relive all of my worst days every night whether I knew it or not, then I can handle anything you throw at me. I'm not afraid."  
  
Simeon closes his eyes. He keeps them closed for several seconds. Then he opens them again, sharp and pale and deadly.  
  
"Perhaps you should be," he replies coldly.  
  
"You know," Primrose says, flicking the hidden knife out. "Lately, I've found that I'm not that fond of doing what people tell me. I think it's about time you found that out."  


* * *

  
  
The fight is less a fight and almost more of a dance— they say fighting is a kind of dancing, but this truly blurs the line between the two. Blades flash silver and ring together in time with the music of a derranged orchestra, and they move around the stage in spirals and loops. Perhaps it's what one may expect of a professional dancer and an experienced actor, but their duel to the death is a work of art in motion. It is a dance where one true strike would mean the end— but for Primrose, one strike is not enough to satisfy her.  
  
Her back hits the stage. Simeon is above her with his hands pinning her wrists to the floor. Light glares from behind him, outlining him in blinding white. He grins, smoke curling from his hands and burning like acid on Primrose's wrists. She struggles, trying to at least yank out the arm with the knife, but Simeon is stronger than he looks.  
  
"A shame," he purrs. "I could've done so much more with you, my dear. Unfortunately, you've made me the villain of your script."  
  
"Actually, you did that first," Primrose replies. She jabs upwards with her knee and gets him in the stomach. She pulls herself back up. There's sweat on her brow. Her breathing is heavy. "I just followed along. But not anymore. No more, Simeon. No more Primroses."  
  
"Yes, yes," Simeon waves a hand impatiently. "You're going to kill me now. You've said."  
  
Somewhere to her right, Primrose hears the mechanical clicking of a crossbow being loaded and aimed.  
  
"You know," she says. "Now that you say so, I have to rethink it. Is 'kill' _really_ the right word to use?"  
  
"I fail to see why it wouldn't be," Simeon replies, clearly bored. "Can we move on with this? I haven't all day to entertain your silly word games."  
  
"Oh, fine, I suppose I'll cut to the chase," Primrose sighs. "Since you're obviously a very busy man.  
  
"You see, Simeon," she says, pacing the stage and idly playing with the belts on the hidden knife. "I've given this a lot of thought. I know how you value careful planning and consideration. So I've decided that I don't want to kill you, and, in fact, I'm not going to."  
  
Simeon arches an eyebrow. "Really?"  
  
"Really," Primrose nods. "I'm not going to kill you, Simeon." She turns to face him. She grins, all red lips and white teeth and no smile. _"I'm going to fucking slaughter you."_  
  
The crossbow bolt rips through a sandbag, spilling sand exactly where Simeon is standing. He sputters, trying to get the sand out of his eyes and not succeeding. And the rest of the team, Primrose's friends, her family, spill out from backstage, a little battered, but every one of them is alive and in one piece.  
  
Primrose knows that, if she were anyone else, the rest of them would rush forward to hug her. But they don't do that. Instead they stand there, a safe distance away. Primrose feels a pang in her heart.  
  
H'aanit isn't smiling, necessarily, but there's emotion in her eyes. She holds out her hand.  
  
"What is it that thou hath sayen before?" she says. "That thou couldst do without the kidnapping, for once? Truly, one would thinkest not that 'tis too much to asken."  
  
Primrose almost wants to cry. She thinks about saying something, but gives up. She runs forward and wraps her arms around H'aanit instead, almost knocking them both backwards, but as always, H'aanit is steady, stable, safe; Primrose buries her face in H'aanit's shirt and breathes her in and she wishes she never had to leave.  
  
Simeon coughs. "I _am_ still here," he says pointedly. "Come now, my dear, I know you're very proud of these new friends you've supposedly made, but do you really think they're still—"  
  
Alfyn cracks his knuckles. "Hey, director," he says. "Over here."  
  
Simeon glares at him. "Can you not _see_ that I'm—"  
  
"Man," Alfyn cuts him off. "Shut the fuck up."  
  
Alfyn punches him in the nose. Primrose hears bone crack. Simeon yells out in pain and falls backwards, clutching his face. It's not enough to kill him, not by a long shot, but it's easily the most heroic thing Primrose has ever seen anyone do for her.  
  
"Fine, then," Simeon growls, pulling himself to his feet. "If you want to fight with backup, then I'll honor that. Allow me to even the playing field."  
  
He holds his hands out. Mannequins with piecemeal armor and battered weapons assemble themselves on the stage, hanging like marionettes.  
  
"You, though," Simeon purrs, looking to Primrose. "You're mine."  
  
"I was never yours," Primrose replies. "I was never anyone but my own, Simeon. You, of all people, should know that anyone who's told me that has ended up dead on the ground."  
  
"Hey! Primrose!" Tressa calls. "Catch!" She tosses Primrose her dagger. It fits into her hand as if it'd pulled itself in.  
  
Primrose grins. "Now, how's that for dramatic irony?"  
  
For the first time, Primrose remembers the fight in crystal clear detail. She comprehends every move, every jab, every block, every swipe. The world shrinks to herself and Simeon, locked once more in the dance of daggers, lethal and elegant. She can see in perfect detail every change in his expression, from a smirk to a grimace as sweat beads on his brow and hairs escape from his braid. She's wearing him down— and for once, Primrose herself feels completely in control.  
  
It's only a matter of time before he slips up. He hits the floor. Primrose's dagger plunges into his neck. She feels it rip through sinew muscle, bone. Death is quick, if not instant. He's dead. She can stop. She doesn't stop. She can't stop.  
  
There is more blood on her and on the stage than there, really, ought to be, for how quick and clean Primrose generally prefers it. In fact, this is the opposite— it's messy and awful and yet she can't stop driving her dagger into his skull as if it'll finally get rid of the anger and aching and pain inside of her, as if in doing so she'll get it through to herself that she's done, that there will be no more killing.  
  
She can't stop.  
  
She can't stop.  
  
_She can't stop._  
  
H'aanit's hands catch her wrist before the dagger can find its place in Simeon one more time. Primrose should be angry, infuriated at being stopped from her rightful vengeance, but—  
  
but there is something painful and ugly welling up in her gut. She drops her knife. It's bloody, like her hands, her arms, her front, the splashes on her face. There are tears in her eyes. When did they get there?  
  
It hurts.  
  
"'Tis over now," H'aanit murmurs. Quiet. Steady. Safe.

Her touch is warm, holding her hand in place without being restricting. H'aanit lets her go. Primrose doesn't want her to. Her ears ring. Her face crumples. Her mask is gone, in shattered pieces on the ground, and what lies behind is feelings bottled up for years and years with the sturdiest cork she could find, anger and pain and fear and sadness and helplessness and despair and grief in a twisted, unrecognizable mass. And it comes out in tears, in sobs, in trembling, in horrible, heart-twisting cries of too much pain left un-felt for far too long. Primrose is getting blood and tears on H'aanit's shirt but H'aanit doesn't care, and her arms are steady and safe.  


* * *

  
  
.  
  
.  
  
.  
  
Primrose lies the flowers down on top of the little grave. It's small, but the tombstone is full-sized, and it's the finest granite, just like the tombstones for her parents. Maybe there's no body to bury, but there's something there, and what matters is that the name is immortalized, literally etched in stone.  
  
Nobody is going to forget Yusufa's name now.  
  
She stands. "There," she murmurs. "I don't know how being dead works, father, but I hope you can meet Yusufa. She's one of the best people I've ever known, and I think you'll love her. At least, I hope so."  
  
She breathes. Her chest still feels raw and achy. She supposes that's just how it is now— maybe it'll never feel the way it was. She's sure, either way, that she's not going to be the same as she was. But, granted, that's not a bad thing.  
  
"I'm not going to be back to visit for… a while, I think," she says to her father's tombstone. "I think I need to go somewhere that doesn't have memories attached to it. Somewhere new. I hear Hornburg is nice this time of year, but maybe I _don't_ want to go there." She grimaces. "Well, H'aanit and I will figure something out. Maybe, along the way, I'll figure out just what to do next."  
  
She sighs. "I wish there were another motto for what comes after faith," she says. "I could really use it right about now. Maybe something about how to find new faith." She pauses. "That sounds like I'm about to join the Church of the Sacred Flame, and I don't think that's a good idea. It works for people like Ophilia, but, I mean, she's Ophilia. Unwavering piety is kind of her thing.  
  
"You know, father," she says. "You'd love all of my new friends, too. They're good people— honest, kind, just. I figure you know by now that my trust is hard-won, but all of them have it."  
  
She pauses. "Don't tell them I said that. I do still have a reputation, after all. It wouldn't do to have everyone know that I'm going soft, would it?" She chuckles. "Maybe I am, but they don't need to know that.  
  
"You know, though," she says. "Alfyn and I talked about this, ages ago. Was that a year ago now? Hard to believe. Anyway, though, we talked about opening up. You know, back then, I was _so_ convinced that I could never show vulnerability again, that I had to seal it up in order to survive and that I couldn't open it up anymore. He disagreed with me. He said that it just takes a lot of patience."  
  
She chuckles to herself. "Well, father, I guess he's right." Her smile fades. "I don't know _what_ I'm going to believe in now. Is that alright, father? It always felt, to me, like you always had something to believe in, to fight for. I kind of assumed it was the wellbeing of Noblecourt, with how dedicated you were to it. But then again, I was just a kid.  
  
"But I think you'll be glad to hear that Noblecourt is in good hands," Primrose adds. "Revello was the one who stepped up in the chaos to bring order back. He was essentially leading it the minute Simeon pulled the Obsidians out of the city. He had my blessing, of course— I'm just glad the people agreed. Everything seems like it's going well! They're cleaning up the old house, getting all the dirt out, and such. Most of the stuff was all stolen or broken, so it's mostly a big pile of junk. I don't mind too much. It's just stuff."  
  
She tucks her hands in the pockets of her coat. "You know, father," she says. "Having a reason for being is great, and all, but there must be a reason why people struggle to find why they keep on living their whole lives, sometimes. Maybe it doesn't _have_ to be something big, like a revenge quest.  
  
"Maybe I can just… be Primrose," she says. "Or maybe I just haven't figured it out yet. But I don't think I need to be in a hurry. I've got good people behind me and a steady road ahead."  
  
She tilts her head back, looking at the city skyline from the cemetary. The air is clean and cool in her lungs. It smells like the flowers the groundskeeper plants around the place. Noblecourt is familiar and welcoming, but although she knows that this place is the place that raised her, made her who she is, it's not where she wants to spend her whole life.  
  
"You know, father," she says. "I can't really explain it, but I have this feeling. And it feels like everything is going to be okay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao you thought it was over? look forward to an epilogue later today-- at least, if you're reading this the morning of april 2nd, 2019. haha, i successfully get to put off the emotional ending address!


	10. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i said "later today," didn't i?

Tressa's collar feels too tight. She tugs at the buttons, frowning anxiously in the mirror. Does the bow look better this way? Oh, no, that's worse. Wait, now it's crooked. How does she fix this. Why did she try to change it in the first place. Nice going, Colzione.  
  
"You're fussing too much," Noa chides. She paps Tressa's hands away from the tie and redoes it, nimble fingers and light touches. "Everything will be _fine_."  
  
"I know, I know," Tressa sighs. "I just— I'm nervous."  
  
"I know, trust me," Noa replies, patting Tressa's shoulder. "There we go. Now don't mess with it anymore, I _promise_ it looks just fine the way it is."  
  
Tressa grumbles at her reflection. She pushes her fingers through the back of her short hair, mussing what Noa had just combed. Noa slaps her hand again. Tressa stuffs her hands in her pockets instead.  
  
"You know who's coming," she mumbles. "Noa, this is the first time we'll all be in one place together in like, five years. Are you sure it's not too concieted that I invited them just to congratulate me?"  
  
"They showed up because they're your friends and they're proud of you," Noa promises, reaching up and taking Tressa's cheeks in her hands. "You've worked for this for how long? Your whole life, right? It's a big deal for you! Not to mention that _other_ thing."  
  
Tressa grins abashedly. "I know, Noa," she promises. "Sorry. I just— I want everything to go perfectly."  
  
"It'll be fine," Noa promises. "You're Tressa Colzione, remember? Youngest winner of Grandport's Merchant's Fair, ever? One of four merchants under thirty to win a Mercantile Excellence Award from the Guild? _Noa Wyndham's sweetheart?_ Give yourself some credit."  
  
Tressa sighs. "Yeah, you're right. As usual."  
  
"I'm so glad you know that by now," Noa says. She leans in and kisses Tressa's nose. "Come on, let's see how many have showed up."  
  


* * *

  
  
Ophilia clasps her hands together in delight. "Oh, Alfyn, you look so handsome!"  
  
Alfyn flushes to the tips of his ears. "Really? You sure I don't look like a kid playin' dress-up in his dad's clothes?"  
  
"You look fantastic," she promises. "Why, I would wager that you wouldn't be out of place at one of Professor Cyrus's fancy faculty balls."  
  
"Aw, hell, Ophilia," Alfyn chuckles. "You're gonna make my behind itch."  
  
"Try to resist the urge to scratch your ass in a ballroom full of rich folks," Therion says flatly, though there's a smile on his face. "Glad to see you haven't changed a bit, Sunshine."  
  
"Seems that you have, though," Ophilia comments. "You've gotten taller, and are those… freckles?" She leans forward, squinting at Therion's cheeks.  
  
Therion tugs his collar up. "Don't look so close," he mutters. "Yeah, they're freckles, okay? Don't make it a _thing_."  
  
"Cute, ain't it?" Alfyn grins, slinging an arm around Therion's shoulders— which, notably, Therion doesn't push away. Instead, he just rolls his eyes.  
  
"Have you seen Tressa yet?" Ophilia asks. "I want to congratulate her. It's not every day your old friend wins an award like this, after all!"  
  
"Saw her with her parents," Therion says, nodding towards a few yards away, where Tressa's being fussed over by her parents, both of whom look like they've been crying.  
  
Alfyn chuckles. "Can only imagine how proud they are," he says. "Shit, I might cry, too. Shortstack's all grown up!"  
  
Something catches Ophilia's eye. "Oh, Professor Cyrus and ser Olberic! They made it!" She waves to the pair of them across the ballroom. Olberic catches her eye and waves back. They haven't changed much— maybe there's a little more gray in Olberic's hair, and maybe Cyrus has a pair of glasses on a chain perched on his nose, but they're still the same people they were before.  
  
"Oh, how fortuitous we aren't too late," Cyrus sighs. He's holding Olberic's arm like they're a married couple going to an opera.  
  
"Cyrus didn't want to ask for directions from Goldshore," Olberic says.  
  
"I know how to read a map, I don't _need_ directions," Cyrus insists. "And, besides, we made it here in the end, did we not?"  
  
"That's the important part," Ophilia agrees. "And I would say it's more than worth it."  
  
"Howdy, teach, boss," Alfyn says, nodding to Cyrus and Olberic in turn. "Long time no see."  
  
"Ah, Alfyn! You shaved!" Cyrus says, clearly delighted. "And you combed your hair!"  
  
" _Zeph_ combed his hair," Therion corrects. "You should've heard him. He was whining like a little kid." Everyone laughs, and even Alfyn has to grin a little, his ears red.  
  
"Yeah, yeah, yuk it up," he grumbles.  
  
"Hey, you made it!" Tressa says excitedly, walking up to the assembled party with Noa beside her. "I didn't expect _all_ of you to actually show up, y'know? It's a long way to Grandport."  
  
"Nonsense," Olberic insits. "As if we were going to miss this."  
  
Ophilia rushes forward and wraps Tressa in a tight hug. "Oh, Tressa, we're all so proud of you!" She pulls back. Her expression of delight turns to dismay. "Wait, you're _taller_ than me!"  
  
"Ah, yeah, call it that late-puberty growth spurt," Tressa chuckles. "You all remember Noa Wydnham, right?"  
  
"Hey, been a while," Alfyn nods. "You two still going steady!"  
  
Tressa and Noa glance at each other, eyes sparkling as if they have a surprise that they can't wait to share. Therion is the only one observant enough to pick up on this. Tressa beams. "Yup," she says proudly. "Couldn't ask for more."  
  
"I'm so glad you're all here," Noa says. "But you're still missing somebody, right?"  
  
"Yeah, Primrose and H'aanit aren't here," Tressa shrugs. "But they're a little hard to track down, as far as the mail is concerned. Has anyone seen Ali? I _know_ I invited him."  
  
"He's here, don't worry," Noa promises, patting Tressa's arm. "I know how much it means to you to have all of your friends here."  
  
"Excuse me, but Ali is my _arch-rival_ ," Tressa says pointedly.  
  
Noa chuckles. "Sure, sweetie."  
  
Tressa looks around the ballroom, humming nervously. "I _did_ invite Primrose and H'aanit," she says. "But I guess I shouldn't hold my breath. They may not have even gotten the invitations."  
  
"Oh, that's a shame," Ophilia sighs. "I've gotten a few letters, but it's not really quite like seeing them in person, is it?"  
  
"Guess Primrose is still out soul-searching," Alfyn shrugs. "She sounds happier in her letters, though. I think a change of scenery's been good for her."  
  
A new voice chimes in. "What is it they say? Speak of Galdera…"  
  
Everyone's attention snaps to the new voice— and it's none other than Primrose herself, in the flesh. She's a few years older, like all of them, but at the same time, she looks younger than she did before they all parted ways. There's a roughness to her cheeks that wasn't there before. There's a few faded scars poking out from where the fabric of her dress hides them. But her smile is brighter and easier than it ever was.  
  
She pats H'aanit's arm. "And lo, he appeareth. That's what they say, right?"  
  
"As I recall," H'aanit replies. She nods to the rest of the group. H'aanit doesn't look like she's changed much at all. Nor does Linde, ever-present at her side, but that kind of figures. "'Tis good to meeten you all once more. And my congratulations on thine award, Tressa."  
  
Tressa's the first to recover. "Hey, you made it! How did— where—"  
  
"Here and there," Primrose says, waving a hand. "Come on, did you really think I'd miss your big day, Tressa?" She pauses. "Did you get taller?"  
  
"Yes," Ophilia sighs. "I can't _believe_ this. I'm going to be short my entire life."  
  
"Sorry, Ophilia," Tressa chuckles. "Guess that's how it goes."  
  
Primrose laughs, and it's not a loud sound, because it never was, but it's clear and genuine and it's _new_.  
  
"None of you have changed a bit, have you?" she says, shaking her head fondly. "I missed you."  
  
"Aw, I knew you cared," Therion teases.  
  
"Everyone _except_ you," Primrose corrects herself. "Are those freckles?"  
  
Therion sighs. "Yes! Okay! I have freckles! It's not _that_ weird!"  
  
"It's cute," Primrose grins. "I take it the Riverlands have treated you well?"  
  
Olberic quirks an eyebrow. "The Riverlands?"  
  
"You can't say that, you don't know what I've been up to," Therion replies. "I never said I've been hanging out in Clearbrook."  
  
Primrose smirks. "No, but _you_ just did."  
  
Therion's eye widens. He turns pink, glaring at Primrose. "I hate you. You're a bad person."  
  
Everyone laughs, and Primrose feels like she never left.  
  


* * *

  
  
Halfway through the party, Noa Wyndham steps up onto the orchestra platform at the end of the ballroom. She murmurs something to her father, then motions for Tressa to come, too. Now that they're standing next to each other and at a difference, Primrose notices that their color schemes match.  
  
"They've been acting weirdly giggly around each other all night," Therion murmurs to her. "Bet there's some kinda secret they're keeping."  
  
"A hundred leaves that they got engaged," Primrose replies. "Look at them. They're practically on a honeymoon already."  
  
"Oh, really, marriage?" Ophilia joins in. "That's so sudden. Tressa's only twenty-four."  
  
"You wanna put your money where your mouth is, Sunshine?" Therion challenges, arching his singular eyebrow.  
  
"It's wrong to gamble on a friend's love life," Ophilia says firmly. Then, quieter, "Double or nothing."  
  
Therion grins. "Hope you're prepared to lose a couple bushels, then."  
  
Noa taps a spoon onto a crystal glass, sending a high-pitched ringing through the ballroom. Everyone stops their conversations and turns to her. She and Tressa have a brief, mumbled conversation that nobody off the platform has any hope of hearing, and then turn back to the party guests.  
  
"Everyone, I'd like to welcome you all again to the party," she says. "I know most of you were at the Merchant's Guild's recent award ceremony, and this is a party to celebrate the latest success of the newest acclaimed member of the Guild, Tressa Colzione—" she gestures to Tressa, who grins and bobs her head to the crowd. There's some applause, but Noa isn't done.  
  
"But, to tell the truth, that wasn't the only reason that I hosted this party tonight," she continues. She grins at Tressa, and takes her hand. "As a matter of fact, this is also a perfect opportunity to announce something that both of our families have been very excited about— not just in the mercantile world, but in th—"  
  
"We're engaged!" Tressa blurts out.  
  
Noa thumps her. "I had a _speech!"_  
  
Tressa grins and shrugs. "Oops?"  
  
Congratulatory applause rises from the crowd. It's the last announcement Noa has to make, so she nods to the crowd to end her address and steps off the stage. They're immediately surrounded by various nearby congratulation-givers.  
  
Therion smirks. "Pay up, Cream Puff. Two hundred leaves, no less."  
  
Ophilia glares at him. "Well, you can't _blame_ me for betting the way I did. We do it differently in Flamesgrace."  
  
Tressa elbows through the crowd to get to them, her grin wide and infectious. "You have _no_ idea how long I've been waiting to tell you guys that. In fact, I would've told you all right away, but a couple _somebodys_ decided to set out for parts uknown, or whatever."  
  
H'aanit shrugs. "Guilty."  
  
"Congratulations," Olberic says, patting her shoulder. "An engagement is a big step in a young person's life."  
  
"You set a date yet?" Alfyn asks. "Also, c'mon, we're gonna be part of the wedding party, right?"  
  
Tressa taps her chin thoughtfully. "Mm, Linde is," she says. "The rest of you are relegated to the guests table."  
  
Linde mrrps happily, nudging against Tressa until Tressa gives her head scratches.  
  
"We haven't set a date yet, though," Tressa admits. "I mean, it'll be here, obviously, Noa's not really up for traveling very far— as nice as it'd be to get married in Rippletide and see the looks on everyone's faces." She sighs. "So it goes. We're thinking summer, though."  
  
"Ah, a summer wedding is lovely," Cyrus agrees. "Though, perhaps I'm biased, as one is." Olberic chuckles agreement.  
  
It takes everyone a few seconds to connect the dots. When Primrose realizes it, even she's taken aback.  
  
"Hey," Tressa says, papping Olberic's sleeve. "Hey, hey, when the _FUCK_ were you two gonna mention that you got _MARRIED?"_  
  
"Forget that, when the fuck did you get _engaged?"_ Therion sputters.  
  
"Did you ever mention you were even courting?" Primrose asks. "I don't blame you for H'aanit and I being out of the loop, but the rest of them, surely…"  
  
Cyrus blinks. He looks at Olberic, at his hand holding Olberic's arm, at Primrose. "…Was it not obvious?"  
  
"We were one another's dates to that Opening Night Gala in Noblecourt," Olberic adds.  
  
"We were sharing a bed for quite a long time," Cyrus continues. "Come, surely _someone_ would've noticed."  
  
"You know," Alfyn mumbles. "That does explain a lot."  
  
"Well, I mean, I'd thought it was just for practicality," Ophilia shrugs. "The bed-sharing, at least. And I'd figured that Professor Cyrus brought sir Olberic as his date because then he wouldn't need to subject anyone to his dancing."  
  
"Oh, yeah, because sharing a bed even when there are four available is _totally_ platonic," Therion snorts.  
  
"It can be!" Ophilia protests. "Tressa and I shared and we're not romantically interested in each other at all, and it worked out fine!"  
  
Tressa coughs. "Uh…"  
  
Ophilia blinks. "What? It worked out wonderfully, your allergies be damned."  
  
"Alright, alright," Tressa caves. "I have a confession. I made that up so I wouldn't have to share a bed with you because you steal all the covers."  
  
"What? I— I do _not!"_ Ophilia sputters. "And, frankly, I am _shocked_ and _appaled_ , that you would— I dedicate my life to our honored Flamebearer Aelferic, blessed be thy name, and _this_ is what I get—"  
  
"Alright, alright, okay," Alfyn holds his hands up. "Does anyone _else_ have big important news to share? H'aanit, you and Primrose would let us all know if you were getting married, right?"  
  
H'aanit shrugs. "'Tis not how we doest it in the Darkwood. The formality and ceremony of an officiated marriage matteren little."  
  
Alfyn sighs. "Oh, that's good."  
  
"But," H'aanit continues. "If thou speakest of some custom about a union of families…"  
  
Alfyn shakes his head. "Absolutely unbelievable."  
  
"Hey, if we're sharing news, Alfyn got a dog," Therion chimes in.  
  
"Alright, nah, no, _we_ got a dog," Alfyn corrects. "I think you hovering over my shoulder, giving your opinions on which of Madge's pups to pick, counts as both of us getting a dog. You basically live in Clearbrook anyway."  
  
Therion folds his arms. "I go where I please, thank you _very_ much," he says matter-of-factly. "I'm a wandering spirit. Roaming the land suits me just fine."  
  
"Yeah, sure," Alfyn chuckles. "Don't think I haven't seen how you've taken to the garden, Therion. Can't really wander while doing that, huh?"  
  
Tressa slaps her hand on Alfyn's shoulder. "Alfyn. Alfyn," she says urgently. "Can I pet your dog. Can I _please_ pet your dog. It's a matter of life and death. _I will die if I do not pet your dog_."  
  
Alfyn chuckles. "Come by for a visit and you can pet him all you want, promise. No dying needed."  
  
Tressa claps her hands together in silent victory. "This is the greatest fucking day of my life."  
  
Primrose looks to Ophilia. "Seems like it's your turn," she says. "What's new in Flamesgrace?"  
  
Ophilia muses upon this, tapping her chin in thought. "Oh!" she realizes. "Lianna and I were fully initiated into the clergy! I'm now part of the division for enlightening Flamesgrace's children on the blessings of the Sacred Flame."  
  
"Oh, so, you're gonna teach 'em those songs that get stuck in your head for the rest of your life, right?" Tressa asks. She snorts. "Can't say I envy you. You're gonna hear 'em in your dreams."  
  
"The songs are a necessary part of early religious education," Ophilia insists. "It's preparing them for learning hymns later in life. But, in a word, yes."  
  
Alfyn groans. "Aw, man, Shortstack, why'd you have to _say_ that? 'A is for Aeber' is gonna follow me to the grave now."  
  
Tressa puts a hand on his shoulder and looks at him very seriously. "If I have to suffer, so do you."  
  
Ophilia shakes her head. " _No_ appreciation for the importance of teaching," she sighs. "But you understand, right, Professor?"  
  
"You know, I wonder about the patterns of song in relation to memorization," Cyrus mumbles, the gears in his head turning. "What _is_ it about setting something to music that makes it inherently easier to memorize than, say, a list? I wonder, could this be applied to other classroom settings? Test scores would exponentially increase if I could teach my students a song listing the names and titles of all the kings of Hornburg…"  
  
Ophilia sighs. "Professor," she says pointedly.  
  
"Hm? Ah—" he blinks. "Did you need something, Ophilia?"  
  
"Something about the importance of teaching," Olberic says helpfully. "I, er, wasn't paying much attention. But I'm happy for you, Ophilia, with regards to your promotion."  
  
"Well, at least you're honest," Ophilia sighs.  
  
"Honestly, I have to wonder what _else_ you two aren't going to tell us," Tressa says, nudging Olberic. "Not us, your _friends_ , who walked across the _continent_ with you for an _entire_ year—"  
  
"I thought we sent out announcements," Olberic protests. "We didn't want to deal with the pomp and circumstance. It was just a short little thing in Cobbleston." He pauses. "We _did_ mail out those announcements, right?"  
  
"We did," Cyrus says assuredly. Then he hesitates, and frowns, a hand on his chin. "I did, didn't I?"  
  
"Did you forget to send out your _own_ wedding announcements?" Olberic repeats.  
  
Cyrus hums. "It would appear that I have."  
  
Alfyn groans. "Man, the next thing you'll tell me is that you adopted a kid and forgot to write, for all we know."  
  
Olberic chuckles paternally. "Don't worry, we would definitely tell you all about that well in advance, should that happen." Then he pauses. "Should it?"  
  
"That's not a bad idea," Cyrus admits. "Of course, there are logistics to work out, but not a bad idea at all."  
  
"Gods, you two are _ridiculous_ —"  
  
"No, no, I certainly wouldn't forget to send out news like that! It would be my top priority! The first thing on my list!"  
  
"Ah…"  
  
"That's what he said about the wedding announcements, isn't it."  
  
"Ah, perhaps, but _this_ time—"  
  
Primrose chuckles. "The more things change, the more they stay the same, isn't it?"  
  
H'aanit squeezes her hand. "Verily."  
  


* * *

  
  
Primrose loves her friends, but after getting used to just herself and H'aanit for miles around, all the excitement is a little much, so she excuses herself and retreats to Wyndham Manse's back patio for a breather. There are still people out there, enjoying the lovely Grandport evening, but it's quieter than it is inside. She just needs a moment to lean on the patio railing and look at the ocean in the distance.  
  
She hears footsteps on the paving stones. Alfyn waves to her when she looks his way.  
  
"H'aanit said I might find you out here," he says. "How 'bout all that, huh?"  
  
"Knowing Cyrus, I can't say I'm surprised," Primrose chuckles. "That man would forget his brain if it wasn't inside of him— which I say in the fondest way possible."  
  
Alfyn snorts. "Well, either way, I'm happy for them. Enjoying the party? I know it must be kind of a lot."  
  
"The Wyndhams certainly know how to host," Primrose replies, nodding to the ballroom. Since they announced the engagement, Tressa and Noa both have been met with a seemingly-unending stream of congratulations and well-wishes. Primrose is happy for them— Tressa is an adult who can make her own decisions, of course, so it's not Primrose's place to give her opinions on who she should and should not court, but Noa's a nice girl. Primrose approves.  
  
"I wouldn't really know anything about that," he admits, boosting himself onto the railing and probably getting smudges of dirt on the seat of his dress pants. "But the food's good. Have you seen the snack table? They've got those little sausages with a billion different options for dipping sauces. I love a good sausage."  
  
Primrose looks at him.  
  
Alfyn rolls his eyes. "Aw, _real_ mature. How old are we again?"  
  
"You walked right into it," Primrose insists, elbowing him. "So, did you need something?"  
  
Alfyn shrugs. "Just wanted to chat one-on-one, I guess. Kinda hard to do that in a big group, s'much as I love 'em. How's the frontier treatin' you?"  
  
"It's been pretty good, all things considered," Primrose admits. "Nice and quiet. I could do without the bugs, though. And the coyotes. And the elementals in every fucking cave. _Gods_ , I hate those things. I'd almost rather fight Simeon all over again."  
  
That sobers the atmosphere without Primrose even meaning to.  
  
"Y'know," she adds, in a vain hope of steering it back to brighter things. "I shouldn't say that. It's insulting to elementals."  
  
Alfyn chuckles. "I don't think they care that much, but that's not the point." He shifts a little. "In that theater, on the stage…"  
  
Primrose's jaw tenses. She hates how familiar this tension is— she didn't realize how tiring it was until she finally let it go.  
  
"How much did you see?" she asks tightly.  
  
He purses his lips. "A good bit," he admits.  
  
Primrose sighs. "Listen, I don't want your pity. I _know_ it was bad. I _know_ you're sorry I had to go through it all. Shit, Alfyn, I even know it wasn't my fault. That part's new, but there it is. Can we go back to forgetting that I ever showed any vulnerability?"  
  
Alfyn sighs. He leans back, hooking his feet in the balusters so he won't crack his skull falling off the patio. "I mean, I know you _want_ to forget about it, but…"  
  
"There's no but about it," Primrose says shortly. "Why do you think I left, Alfyn? This part of the continent holds too many memories. I know some are good and some are bad, but it's all… noisy." She sighs. "I wanted somewhere quiet."  
  
Alfyn nods. "Yeah, makes sense. Sorry to pry."  
  
Primrose shrugs. "Don't worry about it."  
  
He leans forward again, hopping off the fence and leaning on it instead. "I think I get it, though," he says. He looks at the paving stones. "A lot of shit happened. The past few years, I think we all needed to just… put the swords away and pick up a shovel again. Metaphorically. Whatever, it's just somethin' my mom used to say."  
  
"So, then, what have _you_ gotten off to, while H'aanit and I were hiking through parts unknown?" Primrose asks. "Did you go back to Clearbrook?"  
  
"Of course," he shrugs. "Clearbrook's my home, and I never intended to find a new one. I had a good life there that I put on hold for a change of pace, and when the year was up, I picked it right back up again. Never thought about finding a new home and putting down roots somewhere else."  
  
"So, you're back to being Clearbrook's second-best apothecary?" Primrose teases.  
  
He smiles wryly. "Yeah, I'll concede to that. I just… can't ever see myself anywhere else, y'know? You asked me that five years ago, and I stuck to my word. And in another five years, I reckon it'll be just the same."  
  
"I'm glad," Primrose says, and she means it. "Maybe we'll drop by for a visit sometime. To pet your dog, of course."  
  
"He loves new people, you're not gonna have any trouble," Alfyn chuckles. "I'd be glad to see you. My place ain't big, but it's home for me. And if you ever wanna stay in one place for a while, it can be home for you, too."  
  
Emotion tugs at her heart. "Aw, Alfyn, that's sweet."  
  
"Just wanna make sure my friends are taken care of," he shrugs. He acts nonchalant, but he looks back at Primrose, and she can tell that it's not all in jest. "Hey," he says.  
  
"Mm?"  
  
"I'm real proud of you," he says. "Six years ago, you wouldn't be nearly so chatty."  
  
"Well, that was a while back," Primrose shrugs.  
  
"Still," he says. "You're so much… happier, y'know? You're smiling more often than you aren't, and that's pretty big, from the last time I saw you. Hell, I think _tonight_ was the first time I ever heard you laugh."  
  
Primrose's cheeks flush. "W-well, I'm…"  
  
"Hey, don't worry about a snappy comeback," Alfyn says gently. "You've come a long way."  
  
She smiles a little. "I guess I have, haven't I?"  
  
"Yeah, and it's somethin' to be proud of," he agrees.  
  
"I suppose I must be taking a page out of your book," she muses. "Wandering around. Seeing the sights. Going off the beaten path just because. You know, this whole continent has some incredible places— giant waterfalls and groves of pink trees and underwater caves no one's ever touched. I wouldn't have found them if I hadn't met you and learned from you, and I certainly wouldn't have been able to really appreciate them."  
  
His ears turn pink. "Aw, shucks, Primrose."  
  
"It's just like you said," she says, lightly nudging him. "Sometimes, you have to stop and smell the roses."  
  
"Pun intended?"  
  
"Maybe a little."  
  
Alfyn laughs, bright and warm. "Well, shit, I'm glad I made an impression."  
  
"You know I wouldn't be where I am now if I hadn't met you when I did," she says. "Give yourself some credit."  
  
"Hey, hold up, we were just talking about _your_ progress," he says, holding up a hand. "Don't make this about me."  
  
"Newsflash, dumbass, I've made all this progress _because_ I met you," Primrose retorts. "Though, really, I think we're both lucky. After all, if I hadn't come along to protect you, you could've gotten into some big trouble."  
  
Alfyn snorts. "Protect me?" Then he pauses. "Alright, yeah, that's fair."  
  
Primrose hesitates, chewing on her words a little before she says them. "Hey," she says. "Thank you. For everything."  
  
She can tell that Alfyn wants to make a witty comment, but he doesn't. Instead, he just smiles back at her. "Don't even worry about it. Y'know, if you were anyone else, I guess this is where I'd hug you, but…"  
  
He holds out his hand. Primrose glances at it, then back to him. She sees Alfyn falter, about to play it off, but he doesn't get a chance to. Instead, she hugs him. She figures that it's long overdue.  
  
He feels familiar. He feels like coming home.  
  
When she pulls away, he blinks. "Aw, shit," he says. "You didn't have to."  
  
"I wanted to," she says, and she means it. "I figure it's high time I give all of you the hugs you deserve."  
  
"Now _that's_ improvement, Primrose," Alfyn remarks. "Well, you know I ain't gonna stop you."  
  
Primrose. It's her name, and yet, from Alfyn's lips, it feels strange, ill-fitting.  
  
"You know," she says. "You might as well call me Prim."  
  
"Prim, huh?" he tries it out. He nods. "Yeah. Yeah, it feels right."  
  
He glances back at her. "Thank you," he says. "I know how much it means to you."  
  
Primrose shrugs. "It's just a name. You let me borrow yours, so I figure I'm returning the favor."  
  
Alfyn chuckles. "Shucks, Prim, that's real sweet," he says. "Y'know, I could get used to this. Feels like it's as it should be, y'know?"  
  
Primrose nods, looking out at the ocean in the distance. While they've been talking, the sun's dipped below the horizon, and the sky is dark red and fading to black. After a while, she speaks again.  
  
"Yeah," she agrees. "Just as it should be."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so... there's the end! it's been a hell of a ride that i couldn't have even imagined when i started what was _theoretically_ gonna be a sweet oneshot about primrose and alfyn being friends. god, can y'all believe it's 77k? that's insane. more to the point, i can't believe i even finished it. like, actually finished a thing. maybe i'm growing as a writer or something
> 
> anyway, i can't put off the sappy end note any longer: to all of you readers, thank you so much. this wouldn't be half the fic it is today without your continued support, both in the form of comments and kudos here and likes and retweets over on twitter. i've made quite a few friends through this fic, actually-- more than i would've expected! so even though this story is over, it'll always have a special place in my heart.
> 
> ... of course, that's not to say that i'm done writing octopath fic forever now. like, c'mon, who do you think i am? i've got another octopath project simmering that i _hope_ will stick to the "maybe 20k" length that i'm aiming for, but i'm not gonna hold my breath. more than that, i'm definitely not done writing in this universe. there's a lot of stuff that i wanted to touch on but didn't get to or it'd ruin the pacing-- hopefully not another novel's worth, but the jury's still out on that one. 
> 
> so, in short: thank you all for reading this far, getting through my gigantic chapters and constant use of run-on sentences, for listening to me ramble on twitter and discord, if we're friends there, and for supporting me the whole way through. all 77k of these words are for y'all <3 <3


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